


Mosaic

by BrynTWedge



Series: Paths Walked Together [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Caring Greg Lestrade, Depressed Greg Lestrade, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Johnlock, Greg is Sweet, Greg shouts at Mycroft's parents, Healing, Intimacy, Loving Greg, Loving Mycroft, M/M, Married Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Feels, Post-Season/Series 04, Post-TFP, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suffering, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, Support, Supportive Greg, Tender Sex, holmes parents - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-02-26 05:50:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 44
Words: 129,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13229361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrynTWedge/pseuds/BrynTWedge
Summary: ~ Breaking down is sometimes just the opportunity to become something greater, like shattered glass into a mosaic. ~Following the events of Sherrinford, Greg find himself struggling to support his husband, Mycroft, to heal after the ordeal. Mycroft breaks down, and finally begins to try and work through the pieces of the broken mess with Gregory's help. It's a trying time for them both to cope, but hopefully with enough love and dedication they'll make it through to a better future.Final part of the Paths series, but can be read independently.





	1. Coming Home

Greg was glad that he was a DCI more in that moment than any others in his life. In the moment he was called to say that Sherrinford had been taken over by the inmates, that Mycroft was missing, and that Sherlock and John were out in the countryside with Eurus. Greg had said that he’d take over immediately, and there were no questions asked. No one cared if it was within his jurisdiction or not, and so Greg was able to arrive on the scene unchallenged. He had been so worked up that had anyone challenged him, they would have seriously regretted it. 

No one knew anything about Mycroft, and Greg was beside himself with worry. He tried to not let it show, but he knew that it was failing. He almost fell over when word got through that Mycroft was alive, and still on Sherrinford Island. The teams that had managed to secure the Island had found him, locked in a cell. Greg dreaded to think of what kind of state he’d be in. No doubt he would be trying to keep up appearances for the sake of the soldiers. Greg paced about the ground with worry still twisting his gut. John and Sherlock were both alright; well, as much as either could be give the situation. He’d only briefly spoken to them, telling John that Mrs Hudson had Rosie. He couldn’t get his thoughts to think about anything other than Mycroft long enough to have a conversation. 

“Sir?”   
Greg stopped his frantic pacing in the cold night air, his hands on his hips, and looked at the sergeant that was standing before him with a phone.   
“Call for you, Sir.” The sergeant said, passing the mobile over to Greg.   
“Lestrade.” Greg snapped into the receiver.   
“G..Gregory?” Mycroft’s timid voice asked.   
“Holy shit, Mycroft! Thank god… I’ve been worried shitless… What happened? Don’t worry, I’m going to come get you.”  
“NO!” Mycroft shouted in a panic. Greg frowned.   
“You…you can not step foot here.” Mycroft breathed. Ordinarily Greg would argue the point, but he could hear the anxiety in Mycroft’s voice escalate, and so he let it slide.   
“Alright, alright… but I will be there when the chopper hits the ground, you hear?”   
“Mhm.” Mycroft hummed in agreement.   
“Are you hurt? What did she do to you?”  
“I… I am not injured. Eurus locked me in her cell.” Mycroft said, his voice remaining timid. It was highly unusual to hear.   
“Alright, well… we’ll talk more about it when you get here. I’ll see you soon, alright? I love you, so god damned much.”   
“I love you too.” Mycroft said, and hung up. 

Greg breathed deeply and sighed with relief. Now that he’d actually heard Mycroft speak, the panic eating away at his insides had abated. He seemed to be more aware of his surroundings and could think properly. He eyed through the crowd for John and Sherlock (a little unnerved that he’d not noticed nearly that many people there in his daze before) and walked over to tell them that Mycroft was safe. 

“Just spoke with your brother.” Greg announced. Sherlock looked up at him.  
“How is he?” Sherlock asked.   
“He’s a bit shaken up, that’s all. She didn’t hurt him, she just locked him in her old cell.” Greg explained.  
“What goes around, comes around.” John said. Greg felt an instant anger boil in his gut at the comment. John had been extremely insensitive to Mycroft with the prank he pulled, and hadn’t really changed his attitude since it seemed. Greg resisted the urge to bite his head off for the comment, merely because he was still on a high that Mycroft was coming home to him. He was glad, though, that he was called over by Pete.   
“Give me a moment, boys.” Greg said, and started walking over to his officer.   
“Um… Mycroft, make sure he’s looked after. He’s not as strong as he thinks he is.” Sherlock said before Greg could get away. Greg looked at him, impressed that Sherlock had finally seen the real Mycroft, and the truth behind everything he’s done.   
“Yeah I’ll take care of it.” Greg responded, trying to instil some hope into Sherlock. Of course he was going to look after Mycroft. He would spend every one of his remaining days looking after Mycroft - and hopefully will.   
“Thanks, Greg.” 

Greg smiled at Sherlock using his name. The jealousy to keep him at a distance for John’s sake was gone. Greg was still pretty ticked off at John’s attitude, and so liked that Sherlock didn’t feel the need to degrade him for John’s sake.   
“Pete, the helicopter ready? Let’s move her then.” Greg said to the sergeant. He wanted to get this over as quickly as possible.   
“Is that him, sir? Sherlock Holmes?” The sergeant asked. Greg resisted the urge to roll his eyes.   
“A fan, are you?”   
“Well, he’s a great man, sir.”   
“No,” Greg said with an impressed smile, “He’s better than that. He’s a good one.” 

Greg was sure that he still looked annoyed at John when he looked over to the pair of men standing with blankets, but hoped that his joy over Sherlock’s change in attitude showed through even just a little. 

Mycroft was being flown directly back to London at Greg’s request. The sooner he could get home the better, and Greg thought it was best for him not to have to interact with other people right now. Once he was sure that Eurus was secure and on her way, Greg returned back to London to meet his husband. He didn’t even bother saying goodbye to John and Sherlock; the two men had already left the area presumably to head home as well.

The moment Greg saw Mycroft depart the helicopter, he could tell that Mycroft wasn’t alright, but was trying his hardest to appear fine because there were others watching him. He grabbed him and held him in a tight embrace. Mycroft didn’t protest, even though Greg was gripping him hard enough to restrict his breathing.   
“I was so worried.” Greg uttered, his eyes welling with tears. Mycroft didn’t respond. Greg let the tears fall freely, as he was beyond caring about his overwhelming emotions at a time like this.   
“Come on, let’s get you into bed.” Greg said, running his hand soothingly up and down Mycroft’s back. 

Mycroft still said nothing. He felt numb, and was having difficulty registering reality around him. Dissociation, he concluded. His mind was trying to escape. He enjoyed Gregory’s touch, as far as he could tell, and willingly allowed himself to be led to the car. Mycroft’s feet were unsteady, and he felt off-balance. He tried hard to appear normal, but knew that it was a futile exercise. Gregory would be able to see through it, and he wasn’t doing a good job of it anyway. He just couldn’t seem to stop himself trying to impart that control. 

In the car, Greg looked over Mycroft’s expressionless face as he stared out the window. Greg wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say anything or just let Mycroft process on his own for a bit. Well, perhaps ‘unbothered’ might be more accurate, as there was no way in hell Greg was leaving him alone. He couldn’t even bring himself to let go of Mycroft’s hand. Still, it was concerning that Mycroft looked so distant and hadn’t spoken to him… or reacted much at all. 

Once arriving, Greg pulled Mycroft from the car and led him into the house. He was careful to make sure that Mycroft saw him lock the doors well, and enable the security system. He assumed it would help Mycroft feel more safe. He still didn’t let go of Mycroft’s hand, and his husband didn’t make any attempt to free himself from that grip.   
“Come on, love. Straight to bed.” Greg said softly. 

Mycroft could hear the words, but they seemed distant. He moved his head slightly towards Gregory, and then just waited to be tugged towards their bedroom. Something felt off inside him, and he thought that being secure in his own home would have abated that feeling; but instead, it was growing. Mycroft didn’t know what it was, but it was unsettling him. There was an innate _wrongness_ about it, and everything around him. 

Greg pulled back the covers of the bed on Mycroft’s side, and help him sit down on the mattress.   
“Myc, do you need help undressing?” Greg asked, deciding it better to actually ask before attempting to help. Mycroft might have gotten the wrong idea otherwise. Mycroft just looked down at the floor. He looked so uncertain and lost that Greg’s chest ached. Whatever went down in Sherrinford was bad, obviously. He desperately wanted to know what… but he couldn’t ask that of Mycroft now. Greg pulled Mycroft in close for a hug, cupping the back of the man’s head and pulling it to rest against Greg’s chest. He used his other hand to rub circles around on Mycroft’s back.   
“It’ll be ok, love. You’ll be alright.” Greg cooed gently. He felt Mycroft’s body stiffen.   
“I’m fine.” Mycroft said, seemingly broken out of his thoughts.   
“Like hell you are, Mycroft.” Greg rebuked, and leant backwards so that he could cup both sides of Mycroft’s cheeks and look directly into those blue orbs.   
“I know you have that British ‘everything’s fine, carry on’ attitude, but you can throw it out the god-damned window. You’re _not_ fine, and that’s fucking ok, you hear me?” Greg said, a little too forcefully. He regretted it when he felt Mycroft shy away from him.   
“Oh, no, love, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean… I just want you to be ok and part of that is recognising that things aren’t alright. You can’t keep doing this, Myc. You can’t keep just suppressing your problems. It’s made you unstable enough as it was before all of this.” 

Mycroft nodded gently and allowed himself to be held properly once again. He appreciated that Gregory wanted to take care of him, and let him be less-than-fine.   
_Dear, sweet Gregory who doesn’t deserve the mess that I am._

Moments later, Mycroft was changed into his pyjamas. Greg stood over him and tucked him in, pressing a kiss on his forehead.   
“I just need to make a few calls first, love. I’ll be in soon.” Greg whispered. 

Once out in the hallway, with the bedroom door left ajar, Greg pulled out his phone and called Anthea. He informed her that Mycroft was in bed, and that Mycroft most definitely shouldn’t have work for a while. Thankfully, Anthea agreed with him, but said that the decision ultimately rested with the department’s psych evaluation. Greg asked for more information about what had happened, but she was painfully as in the dark as he was. All they both knew was that Mycroft had been locked in Eurus’ cell, and the guards had all been killed. Mycroft had been alone (aside from the other prisoners) until the rescue teams had arrived. No one knew what had happened before Eurus took John and Sherlock off the Island, or much of what had happened since the teams arrived there. No one, that was, except Sherlock and John. 

Greg knew that John wouldn’t be willing to discuss what had happened objectively, and Greg was still pretty annoyed at him for his attitude. Thus, Greg decided he’d try calling Sherlock. The detective had seemed to have softened his attitude towards his brother, and Greg had the feeling that the experience had matured him. The only problem was that he was likely still suffering some post traumatic stress as well, and so bringing it up now might not be the best idea. But Greg had to try.   
“Sherlock?”  
“Greg, good evening.”  
“Did you two make it back to John’s alright?” Greg asked, remembering the state of Sherlock’s flat.  
“Yes, we did. How is Mycroft?”  
“That’s why I called, really. He’s… distant. It’s like there’s a lot going on in his mind and he’s only half present.”  
“Not unexpected, given the situation.” Sherlock commented, but it lacked its usual bite.   
“I was hoping you’d be able to help me with that… I want to help, and I don’t want to cause you unnecessary pain… but I can’t help him without knowing more about what he went through.”  
“I… perhaps that is something better left for him to tell you.”   
“I will get him to tell me, don’t worry. I just want some general idea.”

There was some silence on the line, and suddenly some rustling.   
“Lestrade, I don’t know what you’ve just asked but I can guess it was about tonight. You should know better.” John’s voice suddenly snapped at him.   
“John, I can’t help Mycroft without _some_ idea of what happened.” Greg pleaded. He tried hard to not let his annoyance be heard.   
“He screwed up, that’s what happened. People died, people including _us_ almost died… because he thought he was smarter than everyone, when really, he’s as clueless as the rest of us.”  
“I don’t need your attitude right now, John. I just want to try and help my husband.”  
“I was almost killed tonight, I’ll be as snappy as I god-damn please, thank you.” John retorted. Greg sighed.   
“I’m sorry to hear that, mate, I really am. Look, this was obviously a bad idea. Get some rest and tell Sherlock to do the same.” Greg said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn’t have the energy to fight John right now. He hung up the call and went back into the bedroom. 

Greg stripped down to his pants and slid under the covers. He’d left the bedside table light on, knowing that Mycroft wouldn’t appreciate the darkness right now. He snuggled up so he was spooning Mycroft, and wrapped his hand around the man’s waist. Greg bent his elbow so that his hand was pressed against Mycroft’s chest, applying some gentle pressure. He’d found that this had help calm his husband in the past…it must make him feel safe or not alone, Greg assumed.   
“Myc…you’re trembling.” Greg commented, feeling the tremors that ran throughout Mycroft’s body. He leant his head against the freckled shoulder before him.   
“You’re safe, Myc. I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you, alright? I’ll be here all night. You can sleep.” Greg soothed. Sometimes these things needed to be said even if they were already known. 

“I’m… afraid.” Mycroft uttered, barely a breath.   
“Of nightmares?”  
Mycroft didn’t say anything in response, but nodded instead.   
“If it happens, it happens. I’ll be here to calm you when you wake, and to help you sleep again. For as long as needed. I’m not going anywhere.”   
Greg knew that he was saying things that would more comfort _him_ instead of Mycroft, because of Greg’s fear of abandonment, but he didn’t know what else to say. It was obvious his husband was feeling vulnerable and afraid, and so any confirmation of not being alone would surely help. 

Mycroft didn’t elaborate further. He didn’t want to bring up what had happened, or his feelings. Especially the feeling of wrongness that was expanding in his chest. He didn’t like things he couldn’t explain. He felt safe with Gregory, that was certain, but he still felt afraid. He still felt like his insides were gone and he was nothing but an empty shell. He still saw that moment in his mind play out, over and over, wherein he stood before Sherlock pointing the gun at him, and then turning it on himself. A shiver ran down his spine.   
“Myc? What is it?” Gregory asked him, obviously having felt his muscles shake. Mycroft just shook his head. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. Gregory pressed a little harder into his chest, which soothed him. Mycroft closed his eyes and focused on that feeling; the pressure and the man holding him. He took a deep breath. 

Something inside Mycroft clicked… he didn’t know what it was, but he suddenly felt more at peace. His mind hadn’t managed to decipher the feeling yet; his thoughts were running slow, but he was at least able to register an awareness of things not mattering anymore. He could tell that things were going to be the way they were supposed to be, that he didn’t have to fight against the pain, or memories, anymore. It was comforting. He noticed that Gregory sensed his relaxation, and had loosened his grip around Mycroft’s body. His husband was dead tired, that was evident, and so was rapidly falling asleep.   
“I love you, Gregory.” Mycroft whispered.   
“I love you too, Mycroft.” Gregory responded sleepily. 

Mycroft was pleased that Gregory had heard him. He wanted him to remember those words; he wanted to leave a meaningful message. Kind, sweet Gregory deserved that much. 


	2. My Sunshine

Mycroft stayed awake, staring out into nothingness. His mind was made up, and all of his previously chaotic thoughts were finally in alignment once again. This was the way it was supposed to be, after all. The feeling of wrongness inside him had eased once he’d made his decision. Really, it wasn’t a decision after all. It was a realisation. It was what needed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to leave Sherrinford. He wasn’s supposed to be back here. But at least he got to see Gregory again before the end. 

After Mycroft had laid in bed for a few hours, to ensure that Gregory was indeed asleep, he slowly got up. He was careful not to disturb his husband, but peeling himself out of Gregory’s arms without waking him had been a challenge. Mycroft froze, not even breathing, as Gregory stirred slightly and rolled over in bed. The man mumbled something, and then returned to softly snoring. Mycroft smiled down at him lovingly, albeit sadly.

He treaded lightly over to the small desk in the corner, pulling out a piece of paper and a pen. He stared at it for some time. He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t supposed to get a chance to leave any final words. Mycroft frowned. He felt like the more he said, the worse it would end up being. He’d either ramble about unimportant things, make himself upset, or make Gregory upset. He decided that it was best to be short, and to the point. He softly wrote out two words, just two words, and left the paper in the middle of the desk to be found in the morning. As he looked down at his note, he registered that he should be feeling sad or remorseful, but he wasn’t. He just felt comforted and reassured that this was the right thing to do. He then left the room quietly, leaving the note behind. 

Mycroft then walked into his study, and locked the door behind him. He turned the light on, and ran his fingers along the spines of the books that lined the wall. He sighed. So much left to read, so many things left undone… but Mycroft knew what he was getting into when he left for Sherrinford. His affairs were all in order already. He hoped Gregory would keep the house; he didn’t like to think of him moving anywhere that hadn’t been once _theirs_ , even if it would be empty here for just him. 

Mycroft sat at his desk. His new(er) umbrella was downstairs by the door, and so he’d have to make do with his old one. In a way, he didn’t want to be killed by something he loved… but the more the thought about it, the more appropriate it was. He was supposed to be killed by Sherlock, another thing he loved. Mycroft sighed. He didn’t feel the need to rationalise his decision to himself, but he still felt overwhelmingly depressed about it. Or maybe he just felt depressed in general, and was glad that it was about to stop hurting? He couldn’t be sure. He took out his favourite scotch from the cabinet, and poured himself a large glass. It was the last time to enjoy such worldly things, and he needed the alcohol. He was a coward, after all, and knew he wouldn’t be able to shoot himself without some chemical assistance. 

And that’s when he remembered the valium Gregory had forced him to ask for. It was in his desk drawer. He pulled out the packet. He didn’t have enough for an overdose, but some was better than none. It would relax him enough to not back out of pulling the trigger, he guessed. Mycroft just assumed he’d be too afraid to actually do it otherwise. He’d been terrified back in Sherrinford, but he had only needed to stand straight in wait. He managed to keep his poise and go out with some dignity. That was, until Sherlock…

Mycroft’s stomach flipped and he shuddered at the memory of Sherlock turning the gun on himself. He took a large gulp of scotch, pulled out two of the pills, and swallowed. 

~

Greg stirred awake. At first he didn’t know what had woken him, until he realised that he was alone in bed. He sat up in confusion, looking over to Mycroft’s side. He then looked to see if the ensuite was in use, but it was dark. He frowned to himself. Something wasn’t right, and his chest tightened with worry. Greg stood up and took a few steps to the doorway, straining his ears to hear any movement. If Mycroft was on the treadmill, he’d hear it from here… but it was silent. The quiet only served to concern Greg more.  
“Mycroft?” 

There was no answer to his call. Greg swallowed, and turned to observe the room. There wasn’t much indication that Mycroft had gone anywhere outside of the house. Although, Greg admitted to himself, he wouldn’t really be able to tell either way. His eye caught the white of a paper left on the desk. Mycroft was fastidious about maintaining order with his stationary, and so the paper being so clearly out of place drew Greg closer. He picked it up and his stomach dropped when he read the words written on the white paper. Chills washed over him and he felt his stomach lurch. 

_I’m sorry._

Greg immediately sprang into action. He ran to his bedside table, grabbed his phone, and dialled Anthea. She answered in two rings, but the time still felt excruciating.   
“Get here now. Mycroft’s gonna kill himself. Bring help.” Greg snapped into the phone, the panic evident in his voice.  
“On it.” Anthea responded immediately, and Greg hung up. He was relieved that someone else could bring help while he could devote his time to finding his husband. His stomach churned and threatened to expel his dinner at the thought of what he was about to find. 

Greg ran out into the hall and frantically looked about.  
“MYCROFT!” He screamed, even though he didn’t expect an answer. He instinctively turned left, and made his way towards Mycroft’s study. He couldn’t question his actions… he just went with it, hoping against all hope that he was headed in the right direction. Greg’s heart pounded painfully in his chest as he called out for Mycroft again. He eyed the light that spilled onto the floor from the closed study door, and he breathed a sigh of minor relief that he’d found the right place. 

Greg immediately used his fist to bang on the door.   
“Mycroft, open up!” Greg shouted, his whole body shaking. He decided that he didn’t have time, and threw himself shoulder-first against the door. Greg cursed as he just bounced backwards, the door not even creaking.   
_Damned Mycroft and his security!  
_ “Mycroft please… let me in. You’re scaring me.” Greg pleaded to the silent wooden door. He threw himself at the door again, despite knowing it was futile. He couldn’t just do nothing. He impacted the door again, but remained affixed to the wood.   
“Myc… I need you.” Greg whimpered, pressing his forehead to the door, his fingers clawing down the embossing.   
“Please…” Greg begged again, this time starting to sob, “Please be alive. Please let me in.”  
“You weren’t supposed to witness this, Gregory.” Mycroft said through the solid door. The pain in Gregory’s voice was too much for him to remain silent.   
Greg’s heart leapt hearing Mycroft’s voice.   
_It’s not too late._  


“Mycroft! Mycroft… please… let me help. I’m here for you, remember? We made vows to always be there for each other… please, don’t leave me.” Greg pleaded while on his knees, still pressed up against the door.   
“Go away, Gregory. You don’t want to hear this.”  
“Like fuck I’m going anywhere. You’re going to kill me by doing this either way, Mycroft.” Greg stated firmly with a lot more energy than he felt he had.   
“I have to do this.” Mycroft said, resigned. Greg swallowed at how serious he sounded.   
“No… no, you don’t. What ever happened, whatever she did to you… we’ll get through it, ok?” Greg responded through tears. He pushed the guilt out of his mind at the thought that this was what Mycroft went through all those years ago, with him. It wasn’t the same then, though. They weren’t married — or even together — at that point. Greg couldn’t help but feel the dread constrict his chest at the thought that he’d shot himself regardless of what Mycroft had said.  
“There is nothing to get through, Gregory. I wasn’t supposed to survive.” 

Greg’s heart broke further hearing those words, and how detached they sounded. Mycroft wasn’t himself, more so than Greg had anticipated. Maybe all he could do was keep him talking until Anthea arrived with help… hopefully, Mycroft hadn’t overdosed on anything yet. Greg never thought he’d find himself _wishing_ Mycroft had a gun pointed on himself, even if it was just so that Mycroft hadn’t already done anything to take his life that was merely slower.  
“What gives you that idea, Mycroft?” Greg asked, trying to keep his voice level. There was no response, and so Greg decided to try encourage him further.   
“If this is the last conversation we’re going to have, you should at least tell me why.”   
The words tasted like bile in his mouth, sounding like he was already resigned to his husband’s death.   
“Surviving the bombing was coincidental. Surviving Sherrinford was a mistake. I must correct that mistake. I can’t correct the others.”   
“That makes no sense, Mycroft. You’re supposed to be alive, with me. I don’t give a damn if you’ve made mistakes, Sunshine, or even what they are. You are my husband, and you are not supposed to die now, not like this.” Greg tried to rationalise, but he knew his words weren’t getting through. This seemed to be beyond an ‘emotional cloud’ in Mycroft’s mind… there was something convincing his logical brain that this was a good idea as well. Greg sat back and looked at the door as an idea hit him.  
“Mycroft,” Greg started, “Please, do one thing for me. Please. Go to your desk and open the second drawer. Pull out the little box that’s in there. Play it for me.”

Mycroft was seated at his desk still, his head resting in his left hand, the handle of his umbrella in his right. He closed his eyes and sighed. He really hadn’t wanted Gregory here to witness his death… he knew what it was like to witness a suicide, now, and had almost seen it be of someone close to him. But if Gregory insisted on staying, Mycroft felt that the least he could do was acquiesce to his final request. He loved the man deeply, until the day he died as promised, even if he couldn’t quite feel anything right now. Mycroft opened the drawer, his movements sluggish from the diazepam and alcohol. He never knew that the little box existed. 

“I bought it for you not long ago; just something small for you to find to try and cheer you up when you had a bad day. If it’s ever going to count for something, it’s now.” Gregory said to him through the door.  
Mycroft opened it and saw that it was a little metal music box. He placed it on the wooden top of his desk so the resonance would amplify the tune. He gently took the little handle between his finger and thumb, and turned it slowly. The first three notes were all it took for Mycroft to know the song, and for the first time, he felt a stabbing pain in his gut. 

_You are my Sunshine,  
_ _My only Sunshine.  
_ _You make me happy,  
_ _When skies are grey.  
_ _You’ll never know, dear  
_ _How much I love you.  
_ _Please don’t take  
_ _My Sunshine  
_ _Away._

Greg could hear the gentle tones through the door. The song was played at almost half the tempo he was used to, but it was fitting. The reality of the words tore through him like a knife. It had seemed like a happy song when Greg had bought it, but in that moment he couldn’t see how it was anything other than the saddest song in existence. Greg continued to cry, his hand and forehead against the hard wood of the door, as he silently pleaded for the music to reach his husband.

There was a shuffle. Greg got to his feet. The door bolts slid open, and the door slowly swung open. Greg’s reaction was immediate: his police training helped him dislodge the umbrella-gun from Mycroft’s hand in a split second, tossing it a distance on the floor. He then grabbed Mycroft in an excruciatingly tight grip, and collapsed onto his knees once again with his husband in tow. Greg was shaking and fighting tears too much to notice if Mycroft was crying as well, but the brief look he’d gotten of the man’s face indicated that was the case.   
“Thank you.” Greg muttered, over and over again.   
“I… I’m so confused, Gregory.” Mycroft uttered quietly. He truly was lost. Everything inside him told him that he was supposed to take his own life, because he wasn’t supposed to have survived… but he couldn’t bring himself to do that to Gregory. He couldn’t tell why it was the music that had changed his mind in the end, other than it speaking to him on another level. It spoke to that part of him that wanted to be with Gregory, that wanted to fight to be alright again.  
“That’s ok, it’s all ok. I’m here.” Greg cooed. He stroked Mycroft’s back in a repetitive rhythm. 

It took a few moments, but Greg managed to regain some control over himself. Feeling Mycroft in his arms, very much alive, was reassuring enough to placate the terror that had taken a hold of him.   
“Mycroft… this is very important. Did you do anything?”  
“Anything?”  
“Did you take anything to harm yourself? Was it just the gun?”  
“Nothing lethal.” Mycroft responded, recalling the six or so diazepam tablets he took.   
“What did you take?” Greg asked, pulling out of the hug and staring firmly into Mycroft’s eyes. Mycroft averted his gaze.   
“Just six of the diazepam with some scotch.” Mycroft mumbled. Greg breathed deeply. That didn’t really explain Mycroft’s detachment, but at least it wasn’t lethal… although, he was tempted to not believe his husband’s conclusion. The absent look in Mycroft’s blue eyes was concerning.  
“Alright.” Greg stated, and pulled him in to hug again. 

Greg heard noises downstairs, signalling the arrival of Anthea. The pair didn’t move from their place on the floor in the doorway to Mycroft’s study.  
“Greg? Mycroft?” Anthea called out, approaching the staircase.   
“Here.” Greg called, turning his head away from Mycroft and towards the stairwell.   
There was a rushing of footsteps, and soon after, four people were standing hovering over Greg and Mycroft on the floor. Greg moved his head to flicker his eyes up at them. Three paramedics and Anthea.   
“What happened?” One of the paramedics asked.   
“Took six valium pills with alcohol, was going to shoot himself. Gun over there.” Greg answered shortly. Mycroft was practically not registering that there were others in the room, and Greg refused to move.   
“Alright, well, we’ll still take him in and give him some charcoal, even if it’s not lethal.” Another of the medics said, but neither man moved.   
“Greg…” Anthea started, placing her hand on Greg’s shoulder, “You have to let him go now.”  
“No.” Greg responded. He didn’t care if it was childish… he couldn’t bear to relinquish his Sunshine.   
“We need to take him to the hospital.” Anthea reasoned. Greg felt Mycroft’s body tense at her words.  
“He… he doesn’t like that.” Greg commented. He knew that there wasn’t another option, though. Now that the adrenaline was starting to leave his system, Greg was becoming aware of the aches in his body. Pain radiated from his shoulder where he tried to break down the door, and his knees protested loudly.  
“It’ll be private, don’t worry.” Anthea said, keeping her hand on Greg’s shoulder. Greg nodded and sighed. He felt silly protesting, but he couldn’t seem to stop. He had to force his body to loosen his grip around Mycroft. The moment he managed to pry himself away, the paramedics rushed in and held onto him. 

“Come on, we’ll get you some clothes and then you can go to the hospital with him, ok?” Anthea said, her voice unusually slow and supportive. Greg breathed and nodded, not taking his eyes off Mycroft. The three men helped Mycroft to his feet, and began to walk with him out of the hallway. Greg got to his feet, and groaned loudly.   
“Are you alright?”  
“Yeah… fine. Just stiff.” Greg mumbled, not interested in receiving any care when he wanted it all directed at Mycroft. The pain in his shoulder seemed to indicate he may have done some damage. He hoped it wasn’t fractured anywhere, but it seemed not to be dislocated. He walked into the bedroom and quickly dressed, not caring if Anthea was there to see him, and limped after her down the stairs. 


	3. Realisation

Greg had to wait out in a small area while Mycroft received treatment. It wasn’t the normal waiting area of the ER (and it pained Greg that he knew that), but it was empty which was a blessing. Greg decided to call Sherlock and tell him what had happened — he’d likely want to know, and it gave Greg an excuse to break the silence. 

“Greg?”  
“Sherlock…” Greg breathed, suddenly thinking that the call had been a bad idea. He could barely bring himself to get the words out. Sherlock remained quiet, allowing Greg to take a breath.   
“It’s Mycroft.” Greg said quietly.  
“What happened?” Sherlock asked sternly, his voice unusually dripping with fear.  
“He… he tried… he tried to kill himself.”   
“How bad?”  
“I… I managed to stop him… he’s being treated for a mild overdose, now, but … god, Sherlock…” Greg said, breaking by the end of it.   
“I’m on my way.” Sherlock stated, and hung up the call. 

Sherlock took a second after speaking with Greg to process what was happening. Mycroft, attempting suicide? That was incredibly out of character for him… although, Sherlock realised, he didn’t actually know what the real Mycroft was like anymore. He got up from the couch, knowing earlier that there’d be no chance of getting to sleep, and grabbed his coat. He was going to call out for John, but before he could, he heard the man’s footsteps approach. 

“What’s going on?” John asked, announcing his presence at the entranceway.   
“Mycroft attempted suicide. I’m going to meet Greg at the hospital.” Sherlock stated bluntly, needing to detach himself from the situation.   
“Oh. Understandable, I guess.” John commented, too casually for Sherlock’s taste. A protective rage bubbled beneath the calm exterior Sherlock portrayed, and he took a few steps closer to John so that he was staring down upon him.   
“Regardless, they need us.” Sherlock stated, testing.   
“They?”  
“Greg’s likely a mess, he needs his family and friends now.”  
“Greg? He wasn’t the one that was almost killed…”  
“No, he wasn’t,” Sherlock interrupted angrily, “He was the one that had his family and friends get blown up, and then leave him behind on a mission that they may not have returned from. He then finally found us all alive, only to then have to talk his husband out of killing himself.”  
“I…”   
“Greg’s been through as much as the rest of us, John, and he needs help. Mycroft needs help. You can either come with me and provide that help, without the anger, or stay here stewing in your rage alone.” Sherlock growled, making full use of his height. 

John held Sherlock’s gaze, but realised how true Sherlock’s words were. No matter what he currently felt towards Mycroft, John was still Greg’s friend. Greg had been very kind to him, and John, he realised, had been a bit of a dick in return for a while. He nodded at Sherlock, and went to get changed. 

Greg paced around the small room for a while, unable to stop the thoughts running through his mind.   
_Why did Mycroft do this? What had happened? Why didn’t he talk to me? Didn’t he think about how this would affect me? I shouldn’t be thinking about myself, this was Mycroft’s pain…_

Greg felt the frustration of his circular thoughts spill over in anger, and he kicked the wall near the water cooler. He dully registered pain in his foot as a result, and the anger disappeared. Instead, he was overwhelmed by despair. Greg exhaled and rested his arms on the top of the water cooler, bending over so his head hung between his elbows. 

“Greg?” Sherlock asked in his deep baritone, seeing his friend leaning over.   
“Sherlock, hey.” Greg sighed. He drew a deep breath, and stood upright. Without thinking, he pulled Sherlock into a hug. He then noted that John was there as well. Greg wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He didn’t get a chance to find out, either, as Mycroft’s doctor came into the room and told him that he could go and see his husband.   
“I’ll be back soon.” Greg said, nodding to the pair, and followed the doctor. He was led to a room at the end of a hallway. Greg steeled himself for a second before entering. 

“Myc?” Greg asked timidly, as he saw Mycroft on the bed looking at the floor away from the door. Greg could see that Mycroft had heard him, because he sunk further into himself at the noise. Closing the door behind him, Greg walked up and sat in the chair close to where Mycroft was staring.   
“Mycroft? Can you look at me?”   
Mycroft slowly obliged, his blue eyes meeting Greg’s concerned chocolate gaze. Greg reached out and cupped Mycroft’s cheek gently, and stroked it with his thumb.  
“What happened, lovely? Why didn’t you come to me?” Greg asked, the hurt in his words radiating out and stabbing Mycroft like daggers. Mycroft’s eyes swelled with tears.   
“I’m sorry, Gregory… I’m so sorry.” Mycroft whispered. Greg stood and held him close, once again holding the back of his head and pulling it into his chest.   
“I’m just hurt, love… you matter so much to me, I can’t bear to think of losing you. I would do anything for you, and so I don’t understand why you didn’t talk to me first.” Greg said, his throat threatening to close up.   
“I don’t know why, Gregory… I would, I swear… I would have gone to you. I don’t know why. Everything seems like I was in a trance, but it’s so clear. I don’t understand, and that scares the hell out of me.” Mycroft confessed.   
“I guess our way of thinking changes when we’re that depressed…”  
“No, it was… different. It was like it wasn’t me, but it was. All I could feel when we got home was how _wrong_ it was. I … I think I was manipulated by Eurus, Gregory… I had thought myself immune, but when she spoke to me in the cell…”  
“Eurus spoke to you when she locked you up?”  
“Yes.” Mycroft answered plainly, shivering. Greg softly stroked down his back. 

They remained there for some time, in silence. Once again, it had been Eurus that had almost taken Greg’s family from him. Greg sighed and kissed the top of Mycroft’s auburn head.   
“I understand that it wasn’t entirely your doing, dearest.” Greg spoke softly. The hurt he felt from the inconsiderate abandonment had faded away after realising that it wasn’t really Mycroft’s choice.   
“I really would come to you if I felt close to that point.” Mycroft said with a gentle whimper.  
“I’m glad, really. I think there might be days where you’re at that point ahead… but it’s comforting like you wouldn’t believe that you’ll come to me first.”  
“You… you wouldn’t get annoyed or tire of that happening?”   
“Fuck no, Mycroft. It’ll be stressful, I won’t deny, but I will never _ever_ be upset that you’ve come to me because of feeling suicidal before trying anything. You hear me?” Greg said, the anguish evident in his voice, as he looked directly into Mycroft’s eyes. Mycroft could see nothing but genuine concern, and so nodded.  
“The fear of you doing something far outweighs any burden of you being committed to staying alive with my help by coming to me. So don’t you ever think it’s best to just leave me.” Greg said firmly. 

Mycroft merely nodded against Gregory’s chest, listening to the frantic pounding of his love’s heart. He heard a deep inhale as Gregory sighed.   
“I’d better go and talk to Sherlock. He’s worried about you.” Greg spoke.   
“Sherlock’s here?”  
“Yeah, I called him and he came. Do you feel up to seeing him right now?”   
Mycroft flushed a little red and shook his head. Greg nodded in agreement.   
“That’s ok, I’m sure he’ll understand. Maybe tomorrow. In fact, I think it’s best if you get some rest. Perhaps the doctors can give you something to help you sleep?”  
“I doubt that, given the amount of diazepam I took.” Mycroft answered sheepishly.   
“Alright. Well, I can’t stay here with you apparently. Not right now at least. As much as it pains me to be apart from you, I think it’s best if you do try and get some sleep. You look utterly exhausted, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft was suddenly aware of how tired he felt. His muscles ached, and he could only keep his eyes open half-way. It could be the diazepam, the alcohol, or the events that transpired… but it was likely all three. He nodded slowly, and Greg released him from the soft embrace he’d maintained.   
“I’ll be back in the morning, alright, love?” Greg said, and leaned in to kiss Mycroft. Mycroft said nothing, but nodded again, and gently laid back in the bed. Greg ran his hand over Mycroft’s forehead before smiling down upon him, and then leaving. 

Greg returned to the small area where he’d left Sherlock and John. Both men looked up at him while sitting in the chairs, and Sherlock promptly stood.   
“He’s not up for seeing anyone right now. He’s dead tired, and needs to get some rest.” Greg announced. Sherlock tensed as if he was about to argue, but then nodded.   
“What happened, Greg?” Sherlock asked as he seated himself again. Greg sighed and joined him.   
“I woke up to a note left that just said ‘I’m sorry’, and then I ran to find him. He had locked himself in his study… for a moment, I… I feared it was too late.” Greg said, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Sherlock and John waited for Greg to continue.   
“I tried to break in, and I think my frantic screams made him feel guilty and so he responded. He’d taken six of the diazepam pills with god knows how much alcohol, and he had his gun pointed on himself.”   
“Jesus.” John commented quietly. It was the first time he’d spoken, not feeling game to risk setting anyone off. But hearing what had happened from Greg’s mouth, seeing him shaking slightly slumped in the chair, made John push aside his fear of being shouted at and just try and be supportive.   
“Yes.” Greg answered, his eyes flickering at John. He wasn’t angry, he was just… something. Greg couldn’t really work out what his feelings were, they were so messed up.   
“At least he’s ok.” Sherlock said quietly as he placed his hand on Greg’s back. It was an unusual experience to be physically comforted by Sherlock, but not unpleasant.   
“It was Eurus.” Greg spat, taking a deep breath. “Eurus talked to him in that bloody cell and somehow convinced him that he wasn’t supposed to survive. He was so confused when I held him in the study, and ashamed of it when I saw him just now. I mean, no doubt he’d be feeling depressed enough to consider suicide anyway… but the acting out of it tonight was Eurus’ doing.”  
“She convinced a therapist to kill his family and then himself.” John stated, not really sure why the information was important. Greg sat up and gave him a stern glare.   
“And you still want to torture yourself and the rest of us because she convinced you to text with her?” Greg said sternly.   
“W-what?” John asked, confronted.   
“Eurus managed to convince trained professionals, who knew what they’re up against, to do her bidding. She convinced a therapist to kill his family and himself, and even managed to convince _Mycroft_ to take his own life. And yet, you’re still calling yourself a bad person for cheating on Mary because she made you text her? Christ, John, you’ve been acting like a right bastard to us all since you decided you were one for your text-cheating. But you didn’t really cheat, did you? It wasn’t _anyone_ , it was _her_. If you ask me, you got off lucky.”

Greg sighed, and John remained stunned. He’d not considered that until Greg threw it in his face. Relief washed over him… he thought he should feel bad about being exonerated from his actions just like that, but it was true… it hadn’t been just any girl he’d wanted more with, it was _that_ girl. Eurus; the master of mind control. As relieved as he was about it, he was still guilty over his abandoning of Sherlock when he was dying and for the aggressive, uncaring attitude he’d given Greg. Those were entirely his fault.   
“I’m sorry,” John spoke quietly, “My behaviour towards you all wasn’t Eurus’ fault, it was mine.”  
“You were worst to Mycroft, you should be apologising to him.” Greg snapped.   
“Yes.” John sighed. Greg, again, was right. It was only now that he was able to understand _why_ Mycroft had done what he had; John was realising, like Sherlock, that Mycroft wasn’t the horrible person people made him out to be.


	4. Rough Night

_Greg jumped up from the bed at the sound of a gunshot. He frantically looked about and got his bearings: he was in his bedroom, not at a crime scene. He frowned, wondering why there was a gunshot in his home. He looked over to Mycroft to ask, but Mycroft wasn’t there. Cold dread washed over him as he connected the dots… and he leapt out of bed, but the covers had gripped around him, trapping him. Greg fought against the sheets and eventually freed himself._

_He ran out into the hallway, but he slipped and fell to the ground with a thud. Groaning, Greg looked at what he’d tripped on, only to see a sheet of paper stuck to his feet. He pulled it off his foot and read the words in Mycroft’s cursive script:_

_I’m sorry._

_“NO!” Greg shouted, and scrambled to his feet. He had to find Mycroft, he had to do it soon… Mycroft was bleeding out somewhere! Greg panted as he ran down the hall, seemingly unable to get anywhere. He pushed harder, but he didn’t seem to be moving down the corridor.  
_ _“Mycroft!” Greg called out, and suddenly found himself before Mycroft’s study. He banged on the door, but it didn’t move, and there was no answer. He needed to get through, he had to save Mycroft… but nothing he did made the door budge._

_Greg was shaking as he clawed at the door, desperate for it to just open… when he felt a wetness on his bare feet. He looked down and instantly wanted to vomit. Blood was seeping out from under the door and soaking his feet.  
_ _“MYCROFT NO!” Greg screamed._

Greg jolted awake, panting and covered in sweat. His throat was sore from screaming, and his eyes darted about to take in his surroundings.   
_A dream. Just a dream._

Greg noticed that he was in John’s living room. Before he could notice much else, he felt arms gently slide around him and hold him.   
“It’s ok, Greg.” Sherlock said softly.   
“Sherlock?” Greg rasped incredulously… Sherlock never showed physical affection. Was he still dreaming?   
“Just breathe.” Sherlock hummed, and Greg noticed that he was shaking and holding his breath. The fact that his nightmare could have easily been reality haunted him, making him unable to just dismiss it. He drew in a shaky breath, resisting the urge to suddenly gasp as much air as possible.   
“How…how did I … get here?” Greg panted.   
“John and I refused to let you spend the night alone, and so we came here and you slept on the couch.” Sherlock explained, and Greg noted that it was done without any hint of ‘you’re an idiot’. Then the memories came back to him. He’d been in a daze since - well, since he’d held onto Mycroft on the floor - and so it was no wonder it didn’t really register in his mind right away. Now he was acutely aware of the pounding of his heart, the sweat dripping off his forehead, and the ache in his shoulder. Greg nodded, and Sherlock let him go.   
“Sorry.” Greg grumbled.   
“No, don’t be. It’s to be expected. There’s a reason I’m not bothering to try sleep tonight.”   
“Wait, so you’ve been watching me?”  
“No, I have been thinking.” Sherlock stated, a little distracted. Greg believed him, hearing the tone. 

They sat in silence for a while. John had either not heard them and remained asleep, or chosen to leave them be. Greg continued to try and calm the panic inside his chest, but the reality of the events earlier didn’t make it easy.   
“I dunno what I’m going to do, Sherlock.” Greg sighed. He looked up to see Sherlock’s face, serious and concerned.   
“Nor do I. I had not expected the night to take a turn like this.”  
“It’s not just that, though, is it? It’s where do we go from here.”   
“I know.”  
“Just because it was Eurus this time, doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen again.”   
“I think Eurus’ manipulation is over, as he has played out her demands…”  
“No, Sherlock, I mean of his own accord.”  
“I don’t think you have to worry about that, Greg. That’s not really in character with him.” 

Greg held onto Sherlock’s gaze for a moment, squinting. Sherlock raised his eyebrow.   
“You really don’t know him at all, do you?” Greg said, sounding a little more malicious than he intended.   
“No.” Sherlock replied quietly, his eyes darting to the floor.   
“He was at breaking point before all of this happened, Sherlock. He’s been trying to keep it together with his ridiculously flawed coping methods he had to learn as a kid, always having to deal with everything alone and present as being fine. I was worried he was going to have a breakdown _before_ you two scared the shit out of him with that prank. You… you had no idea he was going to end his life when we met, did you? Trust me, it’s not out of character. Not really.” Greg grumbled, and was pleased at Sherlock’s shocked, uncomfortable expression.   
“I… I had no idea…”  
“Well neither did I until he confided in me when you came back from the dead.”   
“What…” Sherlock cleared his throat, “What happened?”  
“I don’t know if I should tell you, but he wasn’t in a good place for a long time. When you overdosed and I found you, and you were willingly going to rehab to work with me, he decided he didn’t have a reason to keep going anymore. Without knowing it, I stopped him when I called and asked for his help.” Greg hesitantly explained. 

Sherlock stiffened. He remembered that time, and he’d been too focused on himself to notice anything about Mycroft. The times he had been in his brother’s presence, he’d been pretty awful to him. Really, Sherlock considered, he hadn’t stopped being particularly brash to Mycroft. The memories of living with Eurus were still coming back to him, and the more he remembered, the more shame he felt over his treatment of older brother.

“I miss my pillow.” Greg mumbled, without realising he’d said it out aloud. Thankfully, Sherlock chose to ignore it.   
“I want to help you and Mycroft, Greg. I will however I can. Mycroft’s been dealing with this all on his own for too long.”   
“Yes. But you need to take care of yourself, too. Don’t just do what Myc did, because in a few years you’ll be where he is.”   
“I wasn’t planning on it. As much as Mycroft called me the emotional one, it seems I’ve been better at coping with emotions than he has.”  
“I’d say that’s true. He didn’t cope with them, he just suppressed them.”   
“Mhm,” Sherlock hummed in agreement, “Trying to convince everyone, including himself, that they weren’t there.”

They sat in silence once again. Their conversation had helped Greg calm down, but the pit of his stomach still felt hollow. He sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. Things were going to be utterly shit for some time to come. 

~

Mycroft lay in the hospital bed in as much of a ball as he could manage. His mind wouldn’t stop racing, and he went from feeling panicked to depressed in rapid succession. Of all the thoughts, of all the feelings, that were overwhelming him, guilt seemed to be the strongest. Guilt over what he’d put Gregory through. And guilt that he still did want the ease of ending it all. 

He still didn’t know why hearing the music box had made him break his resolve and open the door. It seemed an innocuous trinket with a standard set of musical tones, and yet it had sung to his soul. It had made him lurch out of the captivity of Eurus’ manipulative thoughts. He’d never really understood music like Sherlock and Eurus had. He appreciated it, but they seemed to _breathe_ it. The incident with the music box had given him a glimpse into what music could be for his siblings. 

Thoughts of Eurus danced around his mind as well. What she’d done. What she’d said. How he’d felt during her little experiment. How afraid he’d been of her for her whole life. Mycroft just wanted to escape her. Finally, once and for all, escape her. He knew that he wouldn’t be in charge of her care after the mistakes he’d made which caused this entire shamble, and he was relieved for it. He hated himself to his very core for the mistakes themselves, but at least in his incompetence, he’d have it removed from his responsibilities. 

Mycroft swallowed, his throat dry and unresponsive. He didn’t want to face the consequences for his actions for this any more than he did for those regarding Eurus. Gregory would surely hate him. Sherlock would hate him. He’d lose them all, he was certain. No one would want to stick by him when he was so deeply broken and selfish as to leave them with the hurt of his death. He wanted Gregory to believe him when he’d said that he’d go to him if feeling suicidal… but right at that moment, he wasn’t so sure about the validity of it himself. _Would_ he seek out Gregory’s help? Doing so would mean putting stress and suffering on his husband only so that he himself could continue to suffer more. But the alternative was to shovel off _all_ of his suffering onto Gregory’s shoulders… and the tempting part about that option was that he didn’t have to live with the guilt of doing so. 

Somewhere in his mind, Mycroft was aware he was experiencing post traumatic stress. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back on Sherrinford, or at Musgrave. He would watch the Governor die. He’d smell the smoke and feel the heat of the fire as Musgrave burnt. He would watch his own cowardice as the men were all dropped to the ocean. He’d find himself back in that room, Sherlock with that gun in hand. He would relive that moment over and over. It was like an anomaly of time, the way the moments stretched out for seemingly forever. Every breath, every beat of his frantic heart, seemed to last an eternity. He would see the look in Sherlock’s face the moment he understood what Mycroft was doing. He would watch himself standing there, insulting John. He would see the barrel of the gun, the cold dark metal pointed directly at him. 

Mycroft shook his head violently. No. No more thinking about it. The images came of their own accord, but at least he didn’t have to analyse them. He just wanted an escape from having to see the blood, the dread when he realised he wouldn’t be returning to Gregory… really, all of his memories in general. He wished that he wasn’t lying in the hospital, even if so it was he could down the remainder of his scotch to forget. It wasn’t the healthiest option, but _god_ was it appealing right now. He longed for Gregory to hold him close again. He almost vomited with the stomach contraction following the thought that Gregory wouldn’t be back for him. Mycroft tried to reason between shaky breaths that Gregory said they’d work it out together, that he wasn’t about to abandon him… but the exaggerated fears seemed a lot stronger than his reasoning. 

He sighed deeply, the panic fading again to the crushing depression. He was an utter mess, and there was no way to pretend or hide it anymore. He couldn’t help but still think it would have been better to have died in Sherrinford. Well, maybe not better per-se, but certainly easier. _That_ thought was what really stuck out in Mycroft’s mind to show that his suicidal feelings weren’t entirely the work of his sister… and so were going to still be a problem. He didn’t want to face that problem. He didn’t want to face any of the problems. He was just so _tired_ of it all. Tired of being Mycroft Holmes, the Ice Man, the one always in control. He failed in trying to protect Sherlock, he failed in maintaining a peaceful ignorance in his family, he failed in keeping Eurus secure… he failed in being Mycroft Holmes. He wasn’t in control anymore. Not of himself, not of anyone else. What was there left to come home to from Sherrinford? 

“Gregory.” Mycroft uttered, having to actually say the word to crush the doubts that swirled in his mind. That was what was to come home to. Gregory was always what he had to come home to. He needed to try for Gregory. If only he had any strength left to actually do it, to actually fight. He was drained entirely; it wasn’t a question of mere desire, more of ability. 

He was glad dawn was rapidly approaching. He didn’t want to spend any more time in the darkness of his empty room, lost in a sea of his own thoughts. However, he thought bitterly, the day would only bring the same with slightly better vision of his prison walls. He didn’t want to be there. He wanted freedom to make his own choices, he wanted some semblance of serenity in his mind, but most of all… he just wanted Gregory. 


	5. Struggling Together

After pacing in John’s living room for hours, refusing to eat, it was finally late enough for Greg to return to the hospital. John and Sherlock had offered to join him, but Greg politely declined. He wanted to have a bit of time with his husband alone before adding in more people. John had been surprisingly different in his attitude towards Mycroft since joining them in the morning. Greg was grateful to not have to deal with that conflict as well, but the despairing fact that it seemed to take near-death experiences to change that stubborn doctor’s mind was not lost on him. 

When Greg entered the hospital room, the first thing he noticed was that Mycroft was sitting in the chair opposite the bed, fully dressed in his usual three-piece. Both men paused as their gazes locked; Mycroft looking up from the book in his lap to Gregory standing in the doorway. To an outside observer, it would appear that Mycroft was the visitor, and Gregory was the patient. Greg, however, knew Mycroft better than anyone and could see the distress in his face and body language. The way Mycroft’s smile was too forced, the dark rims under his eyes that remained despite what was assumed to be make-up, the stress and pain that swirled in his eyes, and the way his body was far too stiff in an over-corrective posture were all plain as day to Greg. 

Greg, on the other hand, was overtly worn down. He hadn’t slept much or well since before the break-in incident, and he looked it. His movements were slow, showing how much effort it was to merely stand. He had dark bags under his eyes, lines from stress across his face, and wore a permanent concerned-depressed expression. Mycroft took it all in at first glance, and immediately felt the guilt rage up inside him. Gregory looked ready to keel over, and it was his fault. He put his book aside, stood up, and closed the gap between them. The moment he began to open his arms ready to hug Gregory, his husband leaned forward and grabbed him in a desperate embrace. 

They spoke no words, merely held each other. Mycroft allowed his façade to falter as he scrunched up his face with the emotions raging inside him. Greg nestled his face into Mycroft’s neck and tried hard not to let himself cry, feeling that he should at least try to show some semblance of strength for Mycroft. Mycroft was the one that needed help right now, and Greg wanted to convey that he was strong enough for Mycroft to lean on. He didn’t care if he actually was or not; he’d deal with it.

Once they realised it had been several minutes of hugging in the doorway, they broke apart and closed the door. Mycroft really wanted to just be held again, but didn’t ask for it. He still felt guilty for hurting Gregory thus far, and felt it an adequate punishment to not receive comfort from him for it.   
“You look terrible, Gregory.” Mycroft uttered, and tried to usher him to sit down.   
“And you look like you’re going somewhere.” Greg responded accusingly.   
“I…er… that is, Anthea has explained the situation to the medical staff and as such, I am being released.” Mycroft said awkwardly, unable to meet his husband’s frown.  
“I…” Greg started, unable to form his thoughts into words. Multiple emotions came crashing into him at once. Mycroft simply waited for him to continue. 

“I don’t know why you think you can try kill yourself one night, and then walk out of the hospital the following morning. I don’t know what Anthea has told the staff in charge to let them release you. I don’t know what you think is supposed to happen if you do leave. But, Mycroft, the thing that hurts me the most of all that… was that you decided to make this decision without even _telling_ me.” Greg said firmly, trying hard to keep taking regular breaths. Mycroft stilled. He hadn’t considered the fact that it was something he should have discussed with his husband first; which was probably part of the reason Greg was angry at him.  
“I… I’m sorry…” Mycroft stuttered, suddenly finding it a lot more difficult to maintain his façade.   
“I want you to be taken care of. I need you, Mycroft… fuck, do I need you. I can’t bear to think of losing you, and so you being out there as if none of this happened is bloody scary.”  
“I had believed we have already concluded that Eurus…”  
“No, Mycroft. You and I both know that it’s not just Eurus’ doing and thus everything will be fine now.”  
“But the situation is not as dire as it appears…”  
“Like fuck, Mycroft.” Greg snapped. He was clearly annoyed, but Mycroft could tell it came from care, rather than hatred. Greg sighed deeply and rubbed his face with his hands, and proceeded to ruffle up his silver hair afterwards. 

“You can’t just pretend everything is fine. Suppressing all of this, or ignoring, or distracting yourself from it, or whatever the hell it is you do… that’s not going to help. Believe me when I tell you that. You have to actually deal with this, work through it, process it, and come up with better coping strategies. There’s no other option left anymore. You were going to fall apart _without_ any of this Sherrinford shit happening, Myc. It just made everything happen suddenly and a hell of a lot worse. The first thing you need to learn is that you’re not alone anymore. I mean that in two ways: firstly, that I’m here to support you however I can, so you don’t have to try struggle in silence without any help; secondly, that you have someone that is entirely devoted to you, and whom you’ve committed to, and so you have to consider them when making decisions or in your thoughts.” Greg said in a stern, yet caring, voice. Mycroft sunk into himself and sat on the bed. Gregory was right… again.  
“I’m sorry, Gregory.” Mycroft uttered.   
“Hey, it’s ok, you’re still just learning.” Greg said whilst wrapping his arms around his husband, hearing how close to tears he was.   
“I don’t want to be here, Greg.” Mycroft said, barely even a whisper. He initially meant it as in he physically didn’t want to be in the hospital, but didn’t clarify because the far darker meaning was also true.   
“I know, love.” Greg responded in a high-pitched voice. It was rare that his husband called him ‘Greg’; usually only in dire situations when outside of the bedroom. Mycroft leant forward and wrapped his arms around Gregory’s middle, pressing his cheek against Greg’s chest. Greg leant his head upon Mycroft’s head.   
“I think that’s why it’s important to stay.” Greg spoke softly. Mycroft shook his head.  
“I can’t … it’s … I need…” Mycroft started, unable to form sentences. Greg rubbed him on the back in a soothing motion, and it helped to calm down his racing heart. To think he’d been able to appear fairly normal before Gregory came in… he should have known he’d never be able to keep up the façade around his husband. 

Greg suddenly considered how difficult it would be for Mycroft to actually be admitted to a hospital. It would be an unquestionable reminder that he needed help for all to see. From that perspective, Greg knew that forcing him to stay wouldn’t really help him. Just as Sherlock only had improved from rehab once electing to be there himself, Mycroft would only get better if he wanted to stay.   
“I’ll concede to you leaving, Myc, so long as you promise me here and now that you will call me the moment you start feeling unable to keep yourself safe, and then wait for me to get to you.”  
“That won’t…”  
“Seriously don’t even start to argue, Mycroft.” Greg interrupted, his tone unyielding. Mycroft shut his mouth instantly. It wasn’t often Gregory used that tone with him.  
“I’ve been there, and I know how one day you think it’s absurd to cut yourself, or end it all, and then the next day you wonder why it’s taken you so long to get there.” 

Mycroft nodded. Sometimes he could forget that Greg had been overwhelmed with depression to the point of shooting himself, mostly because he kept the image of Gregory bleeding out on the bed locked away deep in his mind. It was a memory that had caused an increasing amount of distress the more involved he’d gotten. Mycroft always asked ‘ _what if’_ about everything, and the answers to most of those questions tore him apart inside thinking about that day. His stomach lurched as his brain reminded him that Gregory was now the one pondering ‘ _what if’_ about Mycroft shooting himself.  
_Guilt. No matter what I do, or how I think… it always comes back to guilt. I can’t seem to do anything right._

“I’m not asking you to pretend to be fine, hell it’s the opposite; I’m asking you to talk to me. To promise me that I don’t have to constantly be afraid I’ll walk in to a room and find your lifeless body there.” Greg said, his voice hitching at the end. He couldn’t seem to get rid of his nightmare earlier on… he could still feel the warm wetness of the blood on his toes when the image flashed through his mind. He physically shook his head.   
“I promise.” Mycroft said quietly.   
“What do you promise? I need to hear you say the words, Myc.”  
“I promise to call you if I feel suicidal and wait for you to come to me.” Mycroft said, feeling like he should be saying it dismissively… but realising that it was, really, a legitimate requirement for him, and hating himself for that fact.   
“Not just suicidal, Mycroft. Unsafe. I don’t want to walk in to find you covered in blood either.”   
“Alright.”   
“Or even drunk…”  
“Gregory…” Mycroft huffed. Part of him felt bad to have made his husband _this_ upset.  
“Please, Mycroft. Just… tell me when you’re not coping.” Greg sighed. Mycroft took in a deep breath to make as honest a promise he could.   
“I will contact you if I am not coping. I will not take my life without waiting for you to get to me. I will do all I can to avoid self harm.” Mycroft stated clearly, hiding how much he detested himself for needing to make such admissions. At least his words seemed to have placated Gregory, who was now nodding against him.  
“Thank you, Sunshine.” Greg whispered. 

Mycroft frowned and sunk lower at the term of endearment, feeling more guilt over last night. Greg noticed Mycroft shying away from the hug, and so released him.   
“Alright, let’s go then. Back home, that is. There’s no way in hell you’re going off to work.”   
“I am required…” Mycroft began to protest, but silenced upon seeing the look on Gregory’s face.  
“I am going to call Anthea and have words with her, if she thinks that you’re alright to head off to work.” Greg stated. He stood and pulled Mycroft to his feet.   
“Anthea was merely following my orders, I must remind you.”  
“If you’re obviously not of a sound mind to be making those orders, she shouldn’t follow them.” Greg answered bluntly, despite knowing that for Mycroft Holmes, that was a particularly tricky area.  
“To be fair, a lot of it was to be a debriefing regarding the events at Sherrinford. My colleagues are demanding to know details.”

Greg wanted to retort, in some colourful language, just what Mycroft’s colleagues could do with their demands. He decided against it just in case they were listening.   
“I know that they want information, but can’t they appreciate how difficult this is for you and not try make it worse?”  
“As far as they are concerned, I am relatively unaffected.”  
“Well that’s going to change, isn’t it? Why on Earth is that their assumption?” Greg barked, almost amused.   
“You have known the man beneath the mask so long that you forget what their opinion of me is.” Mycroft answered bitterly. Greg tilted his head.   
“They think of me as an uncaring machine,” Mycroft explained, “One whom would not be so affected by the events of Sherrinford.”  
“I think it’s about time they see you as human.” Greg answered, leaving no room for discussion. 

They walked out of the room and to the desk, where an unsettled nurse processed the discharge papers.   
“I still do actually need to give them a debriefing, regardless of my condition.” Mycroft informed Greg.   
“Yeah, but not right now, surely?”  
“Sooner would be better, I believe, given the situation. I will then undoubtedly be required to submit to a psychological evaluation.”   
“Which you will not manipulate, you hear me Mycroft Holmes?” Greg ordered, planting his foot on the floor and pulling Mycroft around to look at him.   
“Manipulate in what manner, Gregory?”   
“Pretending everything is fine, lying to them, or hiding how you really feel. I know you, Mycroft, and you’ll do everything you can to present as fine. It’s what you’ve been taught to do your whole life, so I’m not blaming you for doing it, but you really need to be honest to get help.”   
Mycroft hummed noncommittally, and Greg just shook his head.   
“You don’t have to be entirely forthcoming, but you do have to answer their questions honestly.”  
Mycroft shifted his feet before nodding. Greg smiled in response, and gave his husband a gentle squeeze on his arm as a thank you. 

They went back home, and Greg found it eerily quiet. It was silly, really, but it just felt different. Almost like the ghosts of the past evening were still haunting the corridors. Mycroft felt the unease as well, and tried to just look at the floor as they walked to the kitchen. Neither had said a word, but they instinctively just went about making tea. Once they had sat in their usual places at the table, Mycroft managed to summon the strength to begin conversation again.   
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” He asked, more wanting to know how long Gregory had taken off … again.   
“Personal day. I’ve taken a lot of time off lately, I know, but I think everyone can agree that I needed it. I won’t be able to stay away for long this time, unfortunately. I’ll have to go to work tomorrow.” Greg answered with a sigh. He really didn’t want to leave Mycroft alone.   
“You’ll need to eat something and get some rest, in that case.” Mycroft said.  
“I guess, yeah. I should be caring for you, Mycroft, not the other way around.” Greg mumbled, taking a sip of his tea.   
“You have been adversely affected as well, Gregory, and the recovery from these events will be shared.”  
“That’s true, yes.” Greg nodded, grateful that Mycroft seemed to both acknowledge the problems that needed recovering from, and to want to do it together. 

~

Mycroft managed to actually rest once he was wrapped in Greg’s arms. His internal body clock screamed at him that sleep was not permitted during the day, but he settled to just recuperate some of the lost energy from the previous few days. His husband, however, had managed to drift off to a light sleep. Mycroft felt stabs of guilt in his gut every time Greg would stir or mumble his name with a frown on his face. 

Mycroft wished his mind would rest in tandem with his body. It had settled from the previous evening, however it was still distressing him. Trying to avoid thinking of Sherrinford only served to land him back there; and so he tried to instead just focus on remaining still and breathing regularly to permit his husband some undisturbed rest as best he could. His phone buzzed on the bedside table, and so he slowly reached out to grab it.

**\- Are you at home, brother mine? The hospital said you were discharged. SH**

**** Sherlock was asking for him? Mycroft’s instant reaction was to hide, but he tried to remember that Sherlock had apparently been showing a much more considerate attitude towards him, and was _actually_ caring about him.

**\- Yes, Sherlock. MH**

**\- I will be there shortly. Please. SH**

**** Mycroft wanted to refuse, but Sherlock asking ‘please’ was different enough for him to say nothing. He looked over to Gregory, who seemed to have slipped into a deeper sleep, and decided to get up and greet his brother. Mycroft carefully slid his way out of Gregory’s slackened grip, and walked out to the kitchen. 

It wasn’t long before Sherlock arrived, and Mycroft opened the door preemptively to prevent the doorbell waking his exhausted husband. Sherlock looked tired as well, which in of itself was strange. Sherlock usually possessed the ability to run appearing perfectly fine on no sleep until he literally dropped to the floor. 

They barely spoke to one another, but the company was strangely pleasant. Sherlock didn’t ask how he was doing, which Mycroft appreciated, and Mycroft did the same. Mycroft merely nodded in acknowledgement to Sherlock apologising for his previous behaviour, unable to find the words to respond with. It was a highly unsettling, and new, experience. He appreciated it, that wasn’t in question, he was just so unaccustomed to positive comments coming from his little brother that he was thrown. The conversation was petering out; it was clear that neither of them really wanted to leave too soon, and so they sat in silence for a few moments more. That was, until, there was a scream and a thud from upstairs. 

They both jumped and ran up to the bedroom, Mycroft’s heart pounding in his chest. Within moments he was in the doorway looking at Gregory; on the floor, twisted in sheets, panting. Greg looked up and caught Mycroft’s worried gaze, and relief flooded his expression. Mycroft understood: nightmare. Because of him… again. _Guilt._

“It’s ok, dear, I’m here.” Mycroft said quietly as he approached Greg on the floor. His heart was in his throat and he just wanted to punish himself for causing this much anguish to such a beautiful soul.   
“I… nightmare… then you… gone…” Greg breathed, standing up and gripping Mycroft tightly. Sherlock noticed the difficult moment, and disappeared without a word, for which Mycroft was grateful.   
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Mycroft tried to soothe, but really wasn’t sure if it was helping. Greg shook his head.   
“It’s ok, just me… sorry.” Greg grumbled.  
“Never be sorry for caring about me, Gregory.” Mycroft said, sighing internally. Here Greg was, apologising for being traumatised. Mycroft _really_ wanted to just punch himself.  
“I… feel a bit… ashamed, I suppose… that I’m the one having nightmares and you’re the one that’s gone through all the shit.” Greg sighed as he rubbed his face.   
“I undoubtedly will have nightmares.” Mycroft stated, leaving the insinuation that he hadn’t slept hanging in the air. Greg seemed to register it.   
“Fuck, Mycroft… you should have said something. You’re liable to fall on your feet any moment!”  
“I have managed some rest while you were holding me, before Sherlock arrived.”  
“Oh, Sherlock was here. That’s why you… right. No, hang on, that’s still not enough sleep. Come on, you lay in bed and I’ll hold you again, ok?” Greg said, shaking his head to achieve some clarity. 

Mycroft wanted to argue, but the pleading look in Gregory’s eyes and the aches in his body that screamed louder at the thought of rest won out. He nodded and shrugged out of his dressing gown. They slid into the covers, after pulling them up off the floor, and lay down upon the pillows, entwined. Mycroft couldn’t deny that he felt safer being in his husband’s arms, even if he still felt guilty for receiving such care.  
“Just relax, Myc. I’m here, you’re not alone, and we’ll make this ok.” Greg whispered into Mycroft’s ear. It was warm and soothing in Mycroft’s chest, and before he knew it, he’d drifted off to sleep whilst Gregory watched over him. 


	6. Family

Mycroft sat in his office. He’d just had to endure the debriefing, and it was a lot more difficult than he’d anticipated. He kept an emotional distance from the events as best he could, but even that was a challenge. At least it wasn’t unusual for him to provide such scientific, detached descriptions. Lady Smallwood had been kindly towards him, which had been a blessing; the other members of the board were inconsiderate in their demands for information, and she’d made them back down on occasion. It was evident that the powers that be were looking for blame to be placed on someone’s shoulders, and had intended for those shoulders to be Mycroft’s. Lives were lost, the situation was an embarrassment, and so of course they were looking for culpability. It was no secret that Mycroft had made enemies, and that there were a lot of people that would like nothing more than for him to be dismissed for their own personal gain. 

They’d adjourned for now, deciding to review the information and return to him in a month. Albeit reluctantly, the head of the investigation had admitted that it did not seem likely that fault be laden upon Mycroft. It was however, as Mycroft had suspected, likely that Sherrinford be removed from his portfolio. Mycroft made no arguments to keep it. 

He was tempted to call Gregory. He was feeling drained, and the negative thoughts were more prevalent than he’d like. He could function relatively ok if those ‘dark thoughts’ as he’d aptly named them remained lurking in the background… but when they started to take over parts of his active consciousness, then it was a problem. However he wanted to try and be strong, or some concept of strength he envisioned. It just seemed like a weakness to call Gregory when he wasn’t directly wrestling himself in a potentially losing battle for his life. Admittedly it wasn’t what he’d promised, but he wanted to try anyway. 

The psych evaluation was scheduled for that afternoon, but Mycroft found he had little to do in the time between then and now. He assumed it was Lady Smallwood’s doing, to clear his responsibilities. He appreciated it at the same time as being deflated by the expectation that he was going to be off work for some time. He told himself that she was just preparing for the most likely outcome, and was not making a statement regarding his competence. It was harder to argue against his anxious, self-depreciating thoughts now that they seemed to have been supplied rocket fuel from dark, depressing thoughts. 

His door opened, and Sherlock walked in.   
“If it’s all the same to you, Sherlock, I’d rather not have a conversation right now…” Mycroft groaned, allowing his exhaustion to bleed through. Sherlock winced at him.   
“Then you’re not going to like what’s coming.” 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock nodded to him.   
_Fuck.  
_ Mycroft never swore to anyone other than Gregory, and so even the word resounding through his mind was a mild shock. His parents were coming to see him.   
_Had they been alerted to the suicide attempt? God, that would be embarrassing… the tears, the declarations of care and love, the questioning as to why he didn’t call them… more guilt to deal with._

Mycroft had all of three seconds to sit himself upright before his mother stormed in, followed closely by his father. It took only another two seconds for Mycroft to realise that they were not here out of concern for him, but rather the opposite.  
_Somehow that’s managed to be even worse… but not unexpected. Why would I have thought anything else?_

Mycroft tried his best, with all the energy he had to muster, to remain calm while his mother tore into him. He tried to explain the situation to them, to rationally get them to understand why he’d done what he did. He couldn’t help but twist his hands in nervousness, or avert his eyes from his mother’s furious stare. He was glad that part of his mind had shut down in the overwhelming panic and guilt, for it allowed him to remain stone-faced against her onslaught. 

He thought in despair of how much of an idiot he was to think that they’d understand his actions, let alone try and appreciate that he was only a child at the time. They’d always just seen him as the ‘eldest’, the one that should always know better, the one that was always a disappointment somehow. Mycroft had always been rather aware of how his mother harboured resentment against him because of giving up her promising career in order to raise him, and for him never seeming to be worth the sacrifice. To her, this was just the icing on the cake of his immense failure… and Mycroft was starting to agree with her. 

Mycroft vaguely registered Sherlock trying to support him, speaking against his parents that he’d done his best. That was true… he’d always done his best. It just never seemed good enough. Still, it stung to be told he was ‘ _very limited_ ’, and that he ‘ _should have done better_ ’. He knew he should have; he didn’t need to be told. He tried his best, but his shortcomings had caused nothing but pain. Mycroft kept all of his focus on maintaining a stoic façade whilst his insides were torn apart. Showing the hurt, showing the weakness, only made him more vulnerable to further hurt. He’d learnt that one fairly early in his childhood. 

The final blow his mother drew was to call Sherlock ‘ _always the grown-up’._ No… he wasn’t. Sherlock may have appeared to be the grown-up, but that was only because she never had to deal with his problems. Mycroft had been the one to do that. Mycroft had protected Sherlock, had helped him with his schoolwork, with his emotions, with anything life threw at him - Eurus included. Their mother just wasn’t interested in partaking in that part of parenting. She never did for Mycroft either, and so he’d had to be his own help… but the result was that Sherlock must have appeared as the ‘grown-up’, never needing adult assistance from her. Mycroft clenched his jaw. Mummy never had to deal with Sherlock’s drug habits. She’d blatantly denied them existing, which lead to Mycroft being the one to watch over Sherlock. She seemed to not care, or not acknowledge, that Sherlock had not long ago murdered a man. No… to her, Sherlock was the adult, and Mycroft was the disappointment.   
_Why does it still hurt, after all this time?_

Mycroft found himself unable to speak anymore. Thankfully Sherlock suggested that they take a break and think things over, that it would take time to organise visits to Eurus anyway and it would be best if Sherlock went alone first. They looked to Mycroft, whom just nodded briefly, and then his parents turned tail and left. Sherlock shot him a concerned look before following them and shutting the door. Mycroft was appreciative that for the first time, Sherlock had elected to deal with their parents for Mycroft’s sake. 

Once he was sure they were not returning, Mycroft let himself go. He released the tension that had built up in his whole body, and found himself to be shaking quite badly. Tears began to flow freely down his face. They were a surprise to Mycroft, who hadn’t noticed until they were dripping on the desk. He felt like he’d been gutted alive, and all he wanted was for that feeling to end. They were right… he had failed them, he’d failed everyone. He wrapped his arms around himself, holding his chest tightly. It didn’t stop the feeling of being unable to breathe, but it at least gave some kind of pressure for his mind to register. 

_They are right. I’m a disappointment. A failure. I was one in Sherrinford, I was one before then and I am still one now. I shouldn’t be here. I tried… trying, and failing, is cause enough to just give up, isn’t it? I don’t know what else to do. Gregory was right… it literally can just take a day, an incident, and one can realise the futility of fighting. But…Gregory… I promised. I… I promised I’d at least call._

Mycroft managed to break out of his thoughts for long enough to grab his phone and call Greg. Greg answered immediately.   
“Mycroft?” His voice was already panicked and concerned.   
“Greg…” Mycroft breathed, his throat clamping shut after the first syllable. There was a brief pause.  
“I’m on my way, you hear? Just stay there and don’t do anything.” Greg said. Mycroft could hear rustling of movements on the other end of the line. He appreciated that Gregory just jumped to conclusions this time… it meant he didn’t have to explain his reasons for wanting Gregory to come to him. 

~

Mycroft lay on the bed, still being softly stroked by Gregory. He had been in that strange state of detachment again, however this time with more awareness of his surrounds, since his parents had left his office. He’d been aware that Gregory had burst in, and immediately held him, but he’d not reacted to it. He’d noticed being carefully ushered out of the building and into a car, and then into their home. He knew Gregory had been talking to him, but the words passed him by. Mycroft was lost in the storm of his mind; drowning underneath the swell of self-hatred and depression. Anxiety rumbled overhead, but it was a distant thought; somehow, the waters of depression had put a barrier between him and that constant unease. In a passing thought he recalled Gregory once stating ‘depression kills anxiety’, but he’d not understood it properly until now. However, as of now, he still felt completely trapped inside the sea of emotions. He could do nothing but allow himself to be moved and treated however Gregory saw fit whilst his mind was so barricaded. 

Greg protectively held Mycroft while stewing in silent rage. He’d phoned Sherlock once they’d gotten home, since the only words Mycroft had managed to strangle out was ‘Sherlock’ and ‘parents’. Sherlock had given him a very concise run-down of the events of the day, from Mycroft’s exhaustion following the debriefing, to the utterly vile things Violet Holmes had spewed at her son. Greg thanked Sherlock for his honesty, and promised to do what he could. He was already plotting retribution, and he didn’t even mind it when some especially nasty thoughts swirled in amongst his planning. He dismissed them, of course, but the thoughts placated the anger in his chest. 

Mycroft stirred underneath Greg’s hands, and so he broke out of his reverie and looked over to his husband.   
“Mycroft? You with me?”  
Mycroft didn’t answer, but he looked and met Greg’s gaze properly for the first time since the office. Greg leant forward and kissed Mycroft’s temple.   
“It’s ok, love. They can’t hurt you here. I refuse to let them.” Greg said quietly. Mycroft raised his eyebrow questioningly.   
“Sherlock told me what happened.” Greg answered the silent inquiry. Mycroft looked down, his face reddening, and nodded.   
“Hey, no… you have nothing to be embarrassed about.” Greg said, gently cupping Mycroft’s cheek and moving it to face him. Mycroft shook his head.   
“You really don’t. This, in my opinion, _is_ keeping it together, considering.”   
Mycroft shook his head again. Greg sighed.   
“It’s not that…” Mycroft breathed, his voice broken. Greg hummed, asking for him to elaborate.   
“It’s… I… I actually thought they were there because,” Mycroft started, swallowing, “Because of the attempt last night.” 

Greg remained silent as he watched Mycroft bury his red face into the pillow. He focused on taking regular even breaths… getting angrier right now wouldn’t help Mycroft. Still, he was infuriated. Greg hadn’t really spent a whole lot of time with Mycroft’s parents, and Greg was understanding why Mycroft had orchestrated it as such. For Mycroft to feel _ashamed_ of thinking his parents would care about him… well, he didn’t want to have anything to do with them. He wanted Mycroft not to have anything to do with them. How _dare_ they treat his wonderful, caring husband like that; not just today, but seemingly for his entire life. No child, or adult for that matter, should feel shame in wanting to be cared about; or fear of punishment where care should be. All Greg could tell himself was that at least Mycroft had him now, someone who would care for him always.

~

Greg tapped incessantly on his table, frowning into empty space. Sherlock had thankfully agreed to stay in the house with Mycroft while Greg was at work today, as Greg wouldn’t have been able to focus if Mycroft was alone. He’d called Anthea regarding Mycroft’s psych eval, asking to have it delayed until tomorrow. She’d been understanding, and said that as things stood, the psychiatrist would likely give Mycroft a month of medical leave anyway without needing to even see him. 

“They’re here, boss.” Sally announced at his doorway.   
“Thanks.” Greg responded, standing, still wearing his frown. Sally thankfully didn’t question anything. Greg took a deep breath, steadied himself, and walked out to the interrogation room. 

He steeled himself and entered the room, his eyes falling upon the two people looking disgruntled hovering in the corner. Violet and Siger Holmes.   
“Why have you brought us here?” Violet snapped at him the moment Greg entered the room. Greg wanted to shout back, but he was a professional and knew better.   
“I have asked you here to have a talk with you.”   
“Oh, so talking with us requires you to detain us? You don’t have the right.” Violet grumbled.   
“On the contrary, as Detective Chief Inspector, I have every right to call people in and talk with them if I have reasonable cause they are causing grief to others.” Greg said cooly, and the implication was not lost on Mummy Holmes.   
“You’re arresting us for scolding our idiot son?” Violet laughed, and it took every ounce of self control for Greg not to lash out then and there.   
“Do not, I warn you, do not call my husband that again.” Greg said slowly, his eyes narrowed.   
“Or what? You can’t do anything to us, nor should you. I suggest you leave before I get your supervisor to end your career.” Violet challenged, clearly not backing away from a conflict. Greg expected as much. In fact, it was why he’d brought them here… to a place where his authority was undeniable.   
“Look at you. You’re so used to always getting your way that you can’t even _understand_ when you actually don’t have any control. My husband… your son… is the most powerful man in Britain, and you’ve always had him wrapped around your finger. Not anymore. Mycroft may not do anything to upset you, but believe me when I say _I will._ ” Greg responded forcefully, leaning forward to rest his hands on the table. Siger looked slightly uncomfortable with the power play unfolding before him, but he remained vigil by his wife’s side. Violet, on the other hand, looked ready to beat him. She pinched her face in a sneer, one that told Greg she thought herself above him in every way.   
“You have no jurisdiction.”   
“My job is to remove toxic and dangerous people, to prevent them inflicting further damage and harm upon innocent people… and as penance for their transgressions against their victims.” Greg explained bluntly, and then leaned forward, dropping his voice low. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re EXACTLY within my jurisdiction.” 

There was a thick silence as Greg and Violet stared at each other. Greg was pleased that his words were at least registering in her mind. It was clear to all that Greg knew what had happened in Mycroft’s office yesterday, and knew a lot about the events of the past. Violet seemed almost shocked that someone would stand up to her, and that for all the things to fight her over, it was _Mycroft_. Greg watched as the thought of just leaving, not partaking in this argument with Mycroft’s husband, flashed across Violet’s face; only to be replaced with a resolve that said she wasn’t ever going to back down from her opinion. Greg had seen it happen often enough in his career, but he sighed inwardly thinking that this meant that there wasn’t much hope of getting them to reconcile with Mycroft. They legitimately didn’t see themselves at fault in any way, and thus wouldn’t agree to change.   
_Well, looks like I’m going to have to play this a different way. Removing them from Mycroft. So much for getting them to see the err in their ways and give Mycroft some care… but really, that option was blown out of the water the moment they stepped in here._

“Don’t fool yourself, you can’t do anything to us. We haven’t committed any crimes.” Violet said, straightening her posture.   
“Mycroft could make anything that happens in this room just disappear. He’s done it often enough for Sherlock, your precious ‘grown-up’. That being said, I’m a good man, and won’t stoop to your level to get recompense for your horrible treatment of my husband. But if you think I’ll stand aside and let you continue torturing him, you’ve got another thing coming.” Greg all but snarled, and was pleased at the flicker of Violet’s eyebrow at the mention of Sherlock.   
“How dare you!” Violet shouted, offended. Greg lost his careful control.  
“How dare I?!” Greg yelled, making them both flinch, “I’m just trying to keep my husband alive, and right now, that means keeping him away from _you_.” 

There was silence again as Greg breathed, attempting to regain control of himself. Violet Holmes decided to make that even harder.   
“If we’d known this was who you were, we’d never have approved your marriage.”  
“Ha! You have no idea what a compliment you’ve given,” Greg laughed cynically, the rage boiling up and over the surface, “If the only person you’d approve is someone that agrees with your opinion and attitude, then I’m fucking happy to be the god-damned opposite. And you know what? I don’t need your approval. Mycroft doesn’t need your approval. He has spent his life suffering trying to get it from you, but he doesn’t need it… and fuck, I don’t _want_ him to get it if that’s what it means.” 

Greg took a moment to turn around and face the wall, rolling his shoulders. He then turned to face them.   
“Mycroft was the one that was busy taking care of your family while you were too careless to do so yourself. He was just a kid when he was thrown into having to keep secrets for the benefit of the country and his family. That’s what it comes down to… he was a _child_ when you expected him to be an adult, and so has had to be there for himself when no one else would. He took care of Sherlock through all of his drug problems… and where were you through all of that? Hm? Was that just too inconvenient for you?” Greg stated, not even caring that he was pouring fuel on a raging fire.   
“Ha! You believe that? I don’t know what _lies…_ ”  
“They aren’t fucking lies! I was the one that found him! I was the one that helped him through rehab. You can’t pull that shit with me, because I have numerous official reports about the things your ‘grown-up’ son has done that Mycroft has conveniently buried for his sake. Sherlock has been the biggest _child_ I’ve ever met. He’s inconsiderate of others, he is selfish, he throws tantrums, he pouts, he’s rude… I could go on, but in none of those descriptions would there be the term ‘grown-up’. Just because Mycroft was the one to take care of him, doesn’t mean he wasn’t a child needing care and thus the ‘grown-up’ you wanted Mycroft to be.” 

Greg knew it was unprofessional to swear, but he was beyond the point of caring. Violet looked like she was about to demand to see the offical reports, but Greg shot her a glare that told her not to bother. Greg ran his hand through his hair and sighed. He was done with this argument.   
“You know, of all of your children… Mycroft’s the only one who _isn’t_ a murderer. You forgive your psychopathic homicidal daughter for burning down your house and trying to kill you all, Mycroft and Sherlock multiple times… you choose to ignore Sherlock’s drug habits, or his illegal actions… and yet Mycroft’s the one you come down on. The only one trying to do what was right, the only one who cared, and the one taking all of this the hardest… I don’t understand it. You might be my parents in-law, but right now… you’re just the in-law part. I don’t want to see you again until you’ve decided to be the parent part as well.” Greg stated, resigned.   


He turned and opened the door to leave. He wanted to threaten them with a restraining order should they ignore him, but figured he could do that at a later date. Instead, he just sighed, and looked at them with a pained expression.   
“Just stay away from Mycroft. If you want to know more, ask Sherlock.” 


	7. Together

Mycroft’s psychological evaluation had gone as they’d all expected. He’d been given medical leave for a month, and a review to re-evaluate his condition then. Mycroft disliked being sent away for that amount of time, and held even more distaste for the uncertain result pending once his obligatory month off was up. Greg had tried to reassure him that itwas a good thing, that he had a chance to properly recover and make things better. Mycroft was skeptical. He’d attempted to decline the psychiatrist’s appointments, but he’d received one of Gregory’s ‘do not even _try_ to argue with me’ glares the moment he’d started. 

Mycroft had whined about the frequency… twice a week… until Greg had made him feel guilty about the time when he’d needed help often but once a month had been the best he’d been able to get. Anthea had suggested that the psychiatrist visit their home, but Greg argued that it was better for Mycroft to have a physically new space for sharing things. Greg had been grateful to Anthea for all of her help organising things. She’d managed to employ him for a week under MI5, to stay at home with Mycroft. Greg didn’t like how ‘under the table’ it felt, but it didn’t take much to convince him to agree to it. Greg was still very uncomfortable leaving Mycroft alone for any amount of time, and Sherlock was busy rebuilding Baker Street, and so was unavailable. Anthea had informed him that she would have organised someone to be in the house at all times anyway, but they’d needed to have had enough clearance to do so… and that Greg would be the most beneficial for Mycroft’s health, so really, it wasn’t all that dodgy a deal to get Greg ‘off work’ to stay at home. 

Greg looked up from his book when Mycroft shifted on the couch. They’d been there most of the evening, and Greg had been carefully watching over his husband as the emotions seemed to jump from panic to despair. Greg wanted to get Mycroft to open up, to talk about what had happened… but he didn’t want to push it and cause more grief. Still, it pained him to see Mycroft haunted by the past as he was. 

“Alright, love?” Greg asked, and Mycroft nodded. Greg hoped that eventually, if he asked enough, he’d receive a shake of the head and then an explanation. But he was patient. Greg put the book away and moved over to join his husband on the couch.   
“You know, it’s ok to tell me otherwise. I have been watching you all evening.”   
“I’m sorry. I’m not comfortable admitting it.” Mycroft mumbled. Greg pulled him in close.   
“I know, but I will keep reminding you that it’s ok until you are.”   
“I…I don’t know what I’d do without you, Gregory.” Mycroft said quietly.   
“I don’t want to think about it, really.” Greg shuddered, shaking his head. Mycroft swallowed uncomfortably.   
“I don’t know why you are so … devoted to me, broken as I am.” Mycroft sighed. Greg frowned at him, and gently grabbed his jaw to make him meet Greg’s chocolate stare.   
“You do remember how we got together, right? I was broken then, and I’m certainly not ok now. That’s just how life is, Myc. We love in spite of the brokenness, and do all we can to make it right again.”  
“I … I don’t know if I can do that…”  
“You won’t be what you were before, no, Mycroft.” Greg stated. Mycroft sullenly looked down.   
“Hey… that’s a good thing. You’re broken now, Myc, but that’s just because you weren’t the right shape beforehand. No, that’s not to do with your body… I mean metaphorical shape. You were a tall blue glass vial, and you were never supposed to be that. You cracked and broke… but we’re not going to put you back into a vial with cracks everywhere. That would be pointless. You’re not a solitary, cold, stiff object anymore.”   
“I don’t know what else I can be.” Mycroft despaired. Greg was silent for a moment as he thought, and then broke into a smile. He leant forward and kissed Mycroft gently.   
“I know, Sunshine. I’m broken too, and we’re in this together now. Intwined. We’ve built this new, better life for ourselves through each other. So you know what I think? I think we were two glass objects that broke, and now we have a chance to make something better from the pieces. A mosaic.” 

Mycroft looked into his husband’s shining eyes. The metaphor was spectacular he had to admit. He had no idea how to even begin to do it, but the idea that he didn’t have to be alone, or unfeeling, anymore and suffering to keep it all together was desperately appealing. Mycroft smiled fondly and pressed his lips to Gregory’s very gently.   
“You are such a romantic.” Mycroft spoke, sighing.   
“Always.” Greg responded gleefully. “And you know what? Mosaics are best in the sunlight.”   
“That was not lost on me, dear.” Mycroft chuckled. Greg’s heart expanded at hearing the noise… it was the first time that Mycroft had made any indication of happiness since Sherrinford beyond the odd smile. He leaned in and kissed him again, running his fingers through the short auburn hair. Greg felt a warmth spread through his body at the contact, and felt filled with a desire to be closer to Mycroft, to feel his skin, to gently make love to him… to _show_ him how loved he was. Greg broke the kiss to stare into Mycroft’s eyes, searching for some indication that his husband wanted it too… he’d never try to take things further without Mycroft’s open willingness, especially given how vulnerable he was right now. 

“I…” Mycroft started, but decided to gently kiss Gregory instead of finishing his sentence. He wanted to hold him close, to kiss him, to thank him over and over for still being there. He wanted to feel Gregory’s body against his own, confirmation that he wasn’t alone. Mycroft released his husband’s lips, but pressed their foreheads together.   
“I love you,” Greg spoke, closing his eyes, “So very much.”   
“I love you the same, even if I have trouble expressing it right now.” Mycroft responded. He felt Gregory nod.   
“I want you.” Greg whispered, moving his head so his nose was able to brush against Mycroft’s.   
“I… want you too.” Mycroft breathed, closing the gap between them and kissing Gregory again. 

Greg hummed at the admission, and slid his hand over Mycroft’s cheek while they kissed. Mycroft moved his head up and down so that his nose would brush against Gregory’s skin, as he’d found Gregory enjoyed. Greg slowly moved his hand further around Mycroft’s head, and began softly threading the hairs through his fingers. Mycroft softly moaned at the touch. He ran his hand up Gregory’s side, over the muscled chest, and then up along the soft skin of Gregory’s neck. Greg hummed again, tilting his head to allow Mycroft’s fingers to stroke the sensitive skin. Mycroft continued his way upwards, feeling the contours of his love’s jaw, the roughness of the skin on his cheek, and then the silky texture of the silver hair. 

They continued to kiss gently, softly exploring the other. It had been some time since they’d been intimate, and a lot had happened in the meantime. Greg felt tingles run down his spine when Mycroft stroked his hair, and his body broke out into gooseflesh when his tongue slid against his husband’s. There was no urgency, there was no sense of reaching an end… it was all about experiencing the moment. Tender, soft kisses were shared, gentle exploratory touches felt, and quiet noises of appreciation heard. Greg moved his lips from the soft skin of Mycroft’s, to press kisses along his jawline as he made his way to Mycroft’s ear. The man breathed out a sigh as Greg deftly took the lobe into his mouth. Mycroft hadn’t thought that ears could be sensual until Gregory had his way with them… and then found that it was one of the experiences he enjoyed most. 

“Mmmmm.” Mycroft hummed as Gregory’s tongue slid over the cartilage.   
“You are gorgeous.” Greg breathed into Mycroft’s ear before tantalising it once again with the movements of his tongue. Mycroft’s heart swelled. Gregory really, truly, honestly believed it, and had told him often enough for Mycroft to glow with joy at hearing the words without any self-depreciating comment to be had. 

Greg shifted so that he was straddling Mycroft, his crotch pressing down onto his husband’s. Mycroft moaned at the contact, jolts of electricity shooting through his body at feeling the hardness press against his own. Greg smiled slightly slyly, and purposefully moved his hips up and back down slowly. Mycroft released a deep, guttural moan that sent even more blood rushing south, making Greg’s trousers now uncomfortably tight. They were both already rather excited, especially considering how long it had been since having sex. Greg pondered taking Mycroft there on the couch, so they could have a long sensual session upstairs, but decided against it. No planning, he decided. Just what happens, happens, for however long it happens. Enjoy the moment without thinking. 

Greg leant forward to let his body rest against Mycroft’s. He nuzzled at Mycroft’s neck, softy kissing his way along the tender flesh. Mycroft kept his eyes shut as he enjoyed the sensation, allowing his fingers to gently run over Gregory’s toned back. Greg lifted himself upwards, and returned to kissing Mycroft’s lips as he began to softly pull at Mycroft’s tie. The silk fabric undid easily, and so Greg started undoing the shirt buttons. He knew that he would have to undo the waistcoat first, but he just wanted _more_ skin to touch. Greg slipped his hand down into the space he’d created, the rough skin on his fingers contrasting with the amazingly soft skin on Mycroft’s clavicle. He was able to stroke up along Mycroft’s neck and back down to his shoulder, manoeuvre his hand to slide around the soft flesh and up the back of Mycroft’s head. 

Mycroft pressed his nose up to Gregory’s, nuzzling gently, and kissing him once more. He leant forwards so that he could use both hands to begin undressing his husband. Greg let both arms rest upon Mycroft’s shoulders as Mycroft undid the buttons of his shirt, one by one, until his chest was exposed. Mycroft ran his palms over Greg’s pectoral muscles, his fingers coursing through the salt and pepper chest hair.   
“So handsome…” Mycroft mumbled. He could feel the negative thoughts threaten to creep into his mind, and so he locked his eyes upon Gregory’s loving gaze to prove to himself that this man did truly want him. He saw admiration and lust swirling in the chocolatey depths, a look of passion and care, one that would not be for anyone else. As if sensing Mycroft’s hesitation, Greg moved in and kissed him forcefully.   
“Only you.” He whispered. “My sexy, wonderful husband.”

The words spoke to his soul, successfully kicking out the dark thoughts that were fighting their way forward. Mycroft slid Gregory’s shirt off, humming while he felt the muscles of his shoulders. Greg ran his hands down Mycroft’s arms and made quick work of undoing the buttons of the waistcoat, and then those remaining on Mycroft’s shirt. Greg shuffled forward, hugging Mycroft so that their bare chests pressed together. Greg moaned softly at the contact, squeezing Mycroft closer. He needed this; he needed to feel the heat of Mycroft’s skin against his own, to feel the movement of his chest at every breath, to know that the love of his life was there, with him, still. Mycroft felt the same, resting his head against Gregory’s and just absorbing the thrum of energy that seemed to radiate from his husband. Greg continued to kiss and nip at Mycroft’s neck while holding him in a tight embrace. 

“Want to go upstairs?” Greg murmured.   
“Yes.” Mycroft breathed, the soft touches rendering his mind thankfully dulled. Greg smiled and kissed him firmly before standing up and pulling Mycroft to his feet.   
“Leave them.” Greg stated, seeing Mycroft’s eyes wander to their discarded garments. Mycroft nodded and allowed himself to be directed with a soft tug of his hands upstairs. 

Greg hummed once they were in their softly-lit bedroom, pressing himself flush with Mycroft’s body once again. They were standing at the foot of the mattress, but Greg didn’t want to lay down quite yet. Instead, he ran his hands down Mycroft’s slender back, down to cup both of his buttocks and squeeze gently. Mycroft made an involuntary noise of enjoyment,at not only the feeling of Gregory’s firm grip but of the resulting pressing together of bulges adorning the front of their trousers. Mycroft moved his hips slightly to initiate a gentle rub against Gregory.   
“Hnnn, yes.” Greg groaned, and responded in kind. He kissed Mycroft’s cheek, ear, and neck once again before pulling away to allow just enough distance to move his hands to the front of Mycroft’s trousers. He kissed his way down Mycroft’s neck, halting at the start of his sternum, while undoing his belt. The trousers fell to the floor, and Mycroft stepped out of them and sat backwards onto the bed. Greg smiled lovingly down upon him. Mycroft blushed, smiling back, before reaching up and removing Gregory’s trousers as well. Before Mycroft could let his hands fall back to the bed, Greg placed his own over the top and helped him push his thumbs underneath the fabric of his pants. The material slid down easily, exposing Greg’s hard member, which fell down to hover level with Mycroft’s face. 

Before Mycroft could move to take it in his mouth, Greg bent over to step out of his pants. He then knelt over Mycroft’s lap on the bed, looking down at the gorgeous flushed face, and kissed him firmly. Mycroft brushed his fingers up Greg’s back, eliciting tingles throughout his body, as Greg held on to Mycroft’s face.   
“You… and me… together.” Greg spoke softly. He slid his hands down Mycroft’s lean chest, and pressed down to signal for Mycroft to lean backwards on the bed. Mycroft obliged willingly, closing his eyes and just _feeling_ as Gregory’s fingers tantalisingly wandered over his body. Mycroft lifted his hips into the air to aid Gregory’s attempts to slide his pants off him. 

And then they were finally both naked, in bed. Greg had to push down that desperate urge to just press against Mycroft and frantically fuck him… no, he wanted this to be soft and sensual. Meaningful. He wanted to satisfy every cell in his body that Mycroft was there, with him, _alive_.   
“Roll over, love.” Greg spoke. Mycroft’s eyebrow raised gently, but he nodded with a smile and shuffled so his belly was pressed against the sheets. Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat at the sensation of Gregory moving over him, and hovering directly above him. He didn’t look up, but merely remained still with his forehead pressed against a pillow. The idea of not _seeing_ what was happening, and being left with a curious anticipation, was a feeling that truly excited Mycroft. They’d played with a blindfold often for that reason. 

Greg kissed the back of Mycroft’s neck, and could feel the shiver run down his husband’s body on his lips. Mycroft hummed and took a deep breath. His stomach had flipped in excitement when he’d felt the slightest brush of Gregory’s cock against his arse, and had to resist the urge to raise his hips to initiate more contact. He wanted to just lay there and receive whatever Gregory had in mind for him. Greg kissed Mycroft’s shoulders, loving the dusting of freckles that speckled his husband’s skin, and then continued his way down Mycroft’s spine. Greg loved hearing the hushed breathing, the quiet noises of approval, as he moved lower. 

Greg then used his nose to run all the way back up to Mycroft’s neck, breathing hot, moist air along the way. Mycroft groaned - loudly - when the tip of Gregory’s cock pressed between his cheeks and slid through the crevice.   
“Oh, you like that, darling?” Greg cooed, thrusting his hips again to slide himself up and over Mycroft’t entrance, eliciting another similar groan.   
“God yes, Greg.” Mycroft breathed. It was just wet enough with Greg’s pre-cum to slide, but Mycroft wanted more. Greg seemed to agree, and reached over to the nightstand to fetch the lube they kept there. He slicked himself up, not too much, and then lowered himself down onto Mycroft. His husband moaned at the pressure; they’d discovered early on that Mycroft actually really liked feeling Gregory’s weight upon him. Greg wiped his hand on the sheets, and then slid them under neath Mycroft’s arms to cuddle him.   
“You are everything to me.” Greg breathed into Mycroft’s ear, Mycroft inhaling at the tingleGregory’s hot breath caused.   
“Ohhhh…” Mycroft moaned in response, initially to return the sentiment, but Greg’s cock slid up against his entrance and rendered anything beyond a moan impossible. Mycroft bucked his hips, his own pulsing cock rubbings against the sheets.   
“Patience, my love.” Greg whispered, the desperation in Mycroft palpable.   
“Need…” Mycroft groaned, but Greg kissed his cheek.   
“I need you too.” Greg responded. He had to stop his thrusts, since the tightness in his abdomen told him much longer and he’d be finished. He moved over, off Mycroft, and nudged Mycroft to roll over to lay on his side. Greg lifted his leg up and wrapped it over Mycroft’s, bringing them close together once again. 

Mycroft smiled lovingly into Greg’s eyes, holding his cheek, and then running his hand down the length of Greg’s muscular form to rest upon his hip. In a swift motion, he managed to manoeuvre onto his back with Gregory laying half on his side.   
“Mm, yes, I like this.” Greg mumbled, resting his head onto Mycroft’s chest. Greg closed his eyes and softly stroked up and down over the pale skin below him, listening to the rhythm of Mycroft’s heart below him. Mycroft felt a pang of guilt, seeing how important listening to his heartbeat was for his husband.   
“I want to see your face when I make you come.” Greg uttered, effectively smashing Mycroft out of his painful thoughts. Greg laughed at the strangled noise that escaped Mycroft’s throat. Strong hands ran down Mycroft’s side, making his muscles twitch in excitement, and then brushed over his inner thigh. Gregory hadn’t even touched his cock yet, but his whole body was on fire as if ready to orgasm.   
“Please…Greg…” Mycroft begged, desperate to be touched.   
“Your heart is racing… you really are excited, aren’t you, gorgeous?” Greg commented, his hear still over Mycroft’s heart. Mycroft just nodded. Greg lifted his head and pressed a firm kiss to where his ear had been. He then shuffled up, once again on his hands and knees, hovering over his husband. Greg rested his forehead against Mycroft’s. 

Gregory lowered himself down so that his chest was pressed up against Mycroft’s, propping himself up on his elbows, and ever so slowly thrust forward. Mycroft let out a cry as he felt Greg’s slick cock slide against his own. Greg responded with a low groan. Mycroft’s body against his own was hot, and before long, Greg found himself panting and sweaty from even the gentle movements he was making. He willed himself to not break out into hard thrusts, but he couldn’t help but increase his pace. Greg let his head rest in the nape of Mycroft’s neck, breathing heavily against the skin below Mycroft’s ear.   
“Yes…Greg…” Mycroft moaned. Greg let out a deep, rumbling growl in response. He did so love to hear Mycroft.   
“Myc.” Gregory breathed, barely audible in Mycroft’s ear over his own pounding heart. He was rocking his hips in time with Gregory, each movement sending jolts throughout his body, and making him impossibly harder. Mycroft could feel his stomach start to seize, and he wanted nothing more than to just get as much pressure as possible between them. He grabbed Gregory’s back, holding firmly onto the muscled shoulders, and thrusted upwards. He panted in time with his husband, who had also started to desperately grind his whole body along Mycroft. Greg needed to feel it everywhere, not just in his cock. 

“Arh….” Mycroft shouted, clamping his eyes shut as the tension in his abdomen grew and he felt himself ready to spill.   
“That’s it, gorgeous…” Greg panted, “Come for me.”   
“Greg…” Mycroft moaned, biting his lip, as he came. Greg grunted as he continued to thrust into the sticky mess between them, feeling the muscles in Mycroft’s body shake and go limp. The continued short ‘oh’ noises Mycroft made beneath him sent him over the edge, and he too called out desperately as the orgasm racked his body. 

Greg slid sideways, collapsing, still panting, but keeping his hand atop of Mycroft’s chest. He could feel the rapid rise and fall, and the pulsing of Mycroft’s heart underneath his touch. They were both too spent to say anything, but were happy to just lay there catching their breaths and bask in the afterglow. 

The guilt crept back into Mycroft’s stomach at the insistence his husband had to constantly have reassurance that he was alive, and so he threaded his fingers through Gregory’s hand that rested upon his chest. He bent slightly, so that he could press a kiss to the top of the silver head beside him. He didn’t want to leave this wonderful, amazing man behind in a pit of sorrow. Sometimes it had been tempting, so very tempting, to justgive up. He’d gone from wanting to die to staying for Gregory and back again multiple times already in the short time alone, and it was tiring. Not just exhausting, but _tiring_. It was going to be a battle, but as long as Gregory loved him… he could do it. No matter what it took, he’d fight against himself every day so that he might have the nights like this one. Of that, he was now determined. 


	8. Tea and Talking

Greg had pulled out the vacuum and started cleaning the areas of the house they used most. Mycroft had left for his first psychiatrist appointment, and it had left Greg worrying. Cleaning helped to focus his mind and provide a physical outlet for his restlessness. When Mycroft had informed him that he’d be leaving for the appointment an hour early, to catch up on the major points of work whilst he had been away, Greg had resisted. He’d tried to argue that Mycroft was on _leave_ and therefore not supposed to be involved in work. His husband had been rather insistent, and after some careful observation, Greg had realised the real purpose behind it. Mycroft was truly terrified of the appointment; he was looking for something normal, standard, his everyday routine, to calm himself down from the panic of the unknown. That was how Greg found himself with two and a half, almost three, hours of time to kill until Mycroft returned. It had taken all of three minutes for Greg to leap out of his lounge chair and start to clean. 

He did the bedroom, the ensuite, and the hallway. He paused at the entranceway to Mycroft’s study. Greg had refused to allow the door to be shut again. He knew he’d have to go in there eventually, and so took a deep breath and stepped forward, vacuum-first. He used some of the mindfulness techniques Imogen had taught him to keep the emotions at bay, the loud noise of the vacuum proving helpful in that regard. He was so wrapped up in his head that he didn’t notice the small item on the floor that collided with the plastic head of the vacuum with a clunk. He turned the machine off and bent forwards, gulping once he saw what it was: the music box. 

With a shaking hand, Greg reached out and plucked it up off the ground. He stared at it for a brief moment, before clenching his fingers around the metal and holding it against his chest.  
“Thank you.” He whispered to it. It made no noise in return, thankfully, as had the tones actually played Greg would have burst into tears. 

Greg heard the noise of the doorbell ring, which successfully broke Greg out of his memories. It had only been twenty minutes, and so it couldn’t - or rather, shouldn’t - be Mycroft. He grumbled to himself while rolling his eyes at his own stupidity; Mycroft had a key to their home, he didn’t need to ring the doorbell. However this left Greg wondering just who it could be. 

It was when he reached to open the door that he realised he was still holding the music box. He opened the door with his left, instead. He didn’t want to put the item down. To his surprise, John stood outside his door, holding two mugs. The doctor looked awkward, sheepish even, as he stood there and brandished the items he bore in his hands. Greg didn’t say anything, merely observed the scene before him.  
“Table?” John asked, his voice much more timid than normal. It was then that Greg saw that the mugs were, in fact, the tea mugs that he and John used when Greg would go over to John’s for a chat. Greg smiled, an actual warm smile. John was trying to make amends. Greg stepped forward and hugged him, squeezing him gently through his beige jumper. Perhaps it was the loneliness from Mycroft being out of the house, or the emotions from the music box, that had lead him to be so quick to forgive and embrace; or perhaps Greg, at that moment, just really needed a friend.  
“Come in.” Greg spoke, releasing John. The doctor seemed relieved and followed gratefully.  
“We do have mugs here, you know.” Greg teased a little to lighten the mood.  
“Yeah but… these seemed appropriate.” John responded, placing the mugs on the counter as Greg flicked on the kettle. “Sherlock told me that Mycroft has his appointment today, and so I thought it might be a good chance for us to talk.”  
“Mhm,” Greg hummed in agreement, fetching the teabags, “I’m rather glad you’re here. I’ve been going stir-crazy and it’s only been half and hour.”  
“I’m… glad you… want me here.” John said, his eyes looking to the floor and clearing his throat.  
“Caring friends are something everyone needs. Holding past grudges only hurts and leaves you lonely.” Greg commented. John merely nodded and stared at the bench, somewhat in awe of Greg’s kindness. He frowned slightly when he saw the music box on the bench that Greg had been holding.  
“What’s that?” John asked, nodding in the direction of the small metal item.  
“Something of tremendous value.” Greg answered as he poured the water from the kettle.  
“It’s not made of platinum or something is it?”  
“Tremendous _sentimental_ value. You know I don’t care much for monetary things.” Greg stated. John nodded, took his cup, and walked over to the table.

Once they were both settled, John took a deep breath.   
“I’m sorry for … you know.”   
“Being a dick? Yeah, I know. Grief does tend to do that to you.” Greg sneered into his cup. He might be kind, but he wasn’t going to hold back _everything_. John coughed uncertainly, remembering the time of which Greg was referring: Sherlock’s faked suicide. He felt remorseful of everything since Mary’s death, but that was a stab he’d not expected. He felt he deserved it, though. That and more.  
“I want to try make it right, Greg. That’s why I’m here. I’m not here to explain myself or beg for your forgiveness. I’m here to listen to you. If you don’t feel like you can trust me anymore, then that’s alright. I get it… I’ve… been a selfish prick. All you’ve ever done is try and help me, and I treated you and your family appallingly.”  
“Mhm,” Greg agreed, nodding into his tea, “But of everything that’s happened lately, that’s all fairly low on my list right now. I’ll reserve the right to snap at you when you start it up again, but for now… I’m much more pissed off at Myc’s parents than you, and really I’m just too damned exhausted to be angry.”   
“You’re not coping well.” John stated, not even bothering to phrase it as a question. Greg closed his eyes and shook his head. “Do you… still think about it?”   
Greg eyed John carefully with a flat expression. Yes, he did. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to admit it… but he’d lectured Mycroft earlier about being as open as he could, and felt it would be hypocritical of him to lie to John.   
“Yes. I mean… it seems that kind of thing just doesn’t go away. Always lurking in the background, ready to come back whispering temptation in my ear when the going gets tough. But I’ve made a commitment to Mycroft, and I stick by that. The determination has helped silence the voice that says: it’s too much, end it… but it’s also made it harder to keep going, since there is no other option but to make it better, and I am at a loss on how to do that.”  
John twisted his mouth slightly and nodded. “That’s ok, though, you know. You don’t have to feel ashamed of thinking about it… especially not when Mycroft’s made it a very prominent issue.” 

Greg sighed. He swirled the tea in his mug for a moment, thinking how to proceed. “I’ve spoken to Mycroft. He won’t talk about what happened, John. I’m scared he’s going to just suppress it all like normal and not ever improve. I don’t want it to break inside him again one day when I’m not around to save him.”   
“It’s pretty normal for someone to try distance themselves from trauma, Greg.”  
“Yeah but I want to help, and I have no idea what went on. I don’t think it’s healthy for him to lock it all away and pretend like it’s not there. I can see him doing it, and I can see the strain it’s having on him. I … I can’t lose him, John. I fear that if he doesn’t talk about what happened, his feelings, how he’s doing… I _will_ lose him, one way or the other.”  
John didn’t say anything, but nodded solemnly. Greg continued.   
“Mycroft seemed happy for me to talk about it with you, but I know that’s because he thinks that means I’ll drop it and stop asking him. I won’t. I’m not going to let him think he has to deal with this alone.”  
“He’s not alone; he can’t see that?”  
“He’s been programmed to deal with every trauma, every burden, quietly and by himself. Having me around willing to listen isn’t enough… he just doesn’t open up. I need to basically drag it out of him for his own good.”  
“He’s lucky to have you do that.”  
“I’m torn, John, between making him talk about it and deal with these things to help him heal, and making the situation worse by bringing up the events.”  
“Well, I can say from experience that the events themselves aren’t going to just disappear. They’re going to be brought up anyway. You might have to use a high power drill to get it into his head, but letting him know you’re there to talk about it I think is more important than potentially triggering him.” 

Greg swallowed, and then looked John directly in the eyes. “What happened, John?”  
The doctor nodded softly, and took a deep breath. 

~

Mycroft was unsettled. He was sitting in the waiting room to see the psychiatrist, and nothing he did seemed to stop his body shaking. He had his hands clenched together in his lap, his knuckles white, but they still shook. His left leg jerked repetitively, but consciously attempting to stop it only worked while he was directly thinking about it. He was afraid. He didn’t know what was expected of him in that room, and he wasn’t impressed that he had to talk about himself to a stranger. How was he even supposed to do that? Anthea had assured him that the therapist did have enough security clearance to listen to any detail he wished to bring up (which had come as a shock to Mycroft), but that wasn’t the reason he was hesitant to speak. Every fibre of his being told him that he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t talk about his past, he couldn’t talk about the events, he couldn’t talk about himself. It was an irrational impulse, really, but Mycroft was powerless to reason against the feeling. 

He’d asked Anthea if Eurus was secure at least three times in the forty-five minutes he’d been with her. He didn’t know why he had to continually be reassured of that fact, and knew that there was no way for the answer to have changed in the time between his asking. He just _needed_ to hear it. 

Five minutes until the session. Mycroft’s heart pounded in his chest, and he found himself sweating. He contemplated just walking away, but he’d promised Gregory he’d try. His husband had been very insistent. The decision to try all he could for that wonderful, kind man remained in the forefront of his mind. Remembering the soft touches of last night did help to calm some of the panic swelling in his gut. 

“Mr Holmes?”   
Mycroft looked up to the woman standing in the doorway on the other side of the table. She was older than Mycroft, a little portly, and wore a standard work suit. He stood, stiffly, and nodded.   
“Hi, I’m Dr Waters, please come in.” The woman spoke, standing to the side of the doorway whilst indicating for Mycroft to enter the room. He walked in without meeting her eye.   
“As I understand it, this is your first time seeing a psychiatrist?” Dr Waters asked. Mycroft was unable to say anything, and so just nodded. He wanted to present as best he could, and hated that he was failing at it miserable.   
“You seem rather anxious about being here, so I thank you for putting the effort in to come and see me.” Dr Waters said with a trained smile, pen in hand and a book on her knee. When Mycroft didn’t respond, she continued. “You will have to talk to me, Mr Holmes, for me to be able to help you. Perhaps we could start by you telling me why you are so anxious about being here, and we’ll see if we can alleviate some of the worries you have?”   
“I do not ‘talk’ with strangers.” Mycroft managed to say, his voice strained and clipped. The doctor looked him over.  
“I get the impression that you do not ‘talk’ with anyone, Mr Holmes.” 

Mycroft squinted at the doctor before nodding briefly. He did not say anything further, but instead ran his gaze over the woman before him, deducing her. Married, cat owner, drives to work, has been seeing people with high security clearance for some time, given a brief file on Mycroft. He wanted to ask what she already knew, but resisted. He feared his voice would betray his attempts to remain calm - or at least, his attempt to appear that way.   
“If you do not speak to me, Mr Holmes, there is little I can do for you. I suggest you make an attempt to partake in these sessions. Whilst I understand they are currently mandatory for you, you may find them actually useful should you utilise them appropriately.” Dr Waters said, her tone brash.   
“I am not interested in partaking in a power play.” Mycroft snapped.   
“There is no power play going on here, Mr Holmes. I am aware of your status, as I am aware that in this room, I am the one with the expertise you require.”  
“Then I have no interest in your mind games.” Mycroft retorted, looking away. 

The doctor adjusted her posture, and looked at him sternly. “If you see what I do as a mind game, then no… I don’t think participating will help you. Only when you see that I am someone with skills to help you cope with your own mind will you find benefit from these sessions. I’ll be frank, Mr Holmes. You are here by order of your department. Your ability to return to work is dependent on your progress in coping with your ailments. Your progress, in the eyes of your employers, is determined by my reports. A man of your intelligence would recognise the importance of your willingness to participate and improve in these sessions with me, if only for your desire to return to work. I, personally, would rather help you in order for you to live a happier life… but if you need this to be entirely problem-solution, then so be it.”  
Mycroft stiffened as he listened. The doctor’s logic was reasonable, and she seemed to have done this on multiple occasions - deal with resistant patients, that is. He still was unable to speak, but inclined his head.  
“I have to ask you, Mr Holmes, is there no reason you wish to improve _beyond_ your return to work?” Dr Waters asked with a sigh.  
“Gregory.” Mycroft uttered. He looked up at her, meeting her eyes, and allowed himself to express the hurt through his gaze. “I want to be better for Gregory.”  
“Gregory is your… husband, as I understand?” She asked him, flicking open the file in the back of her book.  
“Yes.” Mycroft said, eyeing the paper she had read from. It seemed to be short, presumably just the reasons for his attendance as per his psychological evaluation and his brief personal situation that would be relevant. It was comforting that she didn’t know much about him, but a wave of panic hit him at the realisation that meant _he_ would have to be the one to inform her.  
“That’s good. That’s a much more motivating reason to improve your health, Mr Holmes. The best, of course, would be for yourself… but I feel we’ll have a ways to go in that regard yet. Why do you want to improve for Gregory’s sake?”  
“He worries. I feel guilty for doing that to him… I feel so guilty…”  
“Having someone who cares for you that much is a blessing, but don’t think that their impression is a negative one of you for causing them that grief.”  
“How could he not?”  
“He’s hurting _with_ you, Mr Holmes. Loving someone that is going through a difficult time…it hurts, but it’s not a resentful pain, it’s a sympathetic one. He wants you to not be suffering anymore, and seeing you in pain causes him pain. I can understand why you’d feel guilty for it, but it’s not your fault that this is happening. Feeling worse over your guilt is only causing you both more stress and pain in a vicious cycle… you’ll have to learn to let most of it go to try and improve.”

Mycroft sat in silence while he thought. He felt so conflicted; everything the doctor had said seemed perfectly reasonable and logical, however his emotional brain just couldn’t accept the premise. To release the guilt he felt over what pain he’d caused his husband, he’d have to forgive himself. Doing that was something he didn’t deserve. But now, he felt pain at making things worse for Gregory because of being unworthy of his own forgiveness.   
“Do you want to tell me what you’re feeling right now?”  
“No.” Mycroft answered shortly. The doctor nodded at him.   
“Have you been able to talk about your feelings with your husband?”  
“No.”  
“Why not?”  
“He does not deserve to be burdened with such.” Mycroft said, scowling to himself.   
“I would bet that your husband would disagree.”   
“It is not his decision. I cannot take back the horrible things I would say once releasing them. He has been through enough without my adding to it.”   
“Mr Holmes, I can tell you have an aversion to talking about yourself, but I want you to try and picture the situation if your roles were reversed. It is obvious you care a great deal for Gregory, and no doubt would want to help him in any way you could. If he had gone through a traumatic experience, and was exhibiting the symptoms and behaviours you are now, would you want him to talk to you about it?”  
“Of course.” Mycroft stated, incredulous. He would always be there to support Gregory through his challenges. He was there before to help him heal from pain, and he was determined to do so again… could this woman not see that was why he was keeping this all to himself? To save Gregory from further hurt?  
“Would you feel upset if you were unable to help, because he refused to let you?”  
“I… I suppose.” Mycroft conceded.   
“Why do you think that he feels different to that now, for you?”   
“It is … better, for him to be frustrated at me, for not talking… than to have to carry my pain.”  
“Mr Holmes, given your job, I know you pride yourself in knowing a great deal. Would you honestly feel better being kept in the dark?”

Mycroft swallowed. No, he wouldn’t. He would panic, a lot. The unknown had always scared him, as his mind would run rampant with possibilities which always tended to be negative. Whilst his ability to assume ‘worst case scenarios’ in his line of work was useful, it was not so good regarding his personal life. Unfortunately it had not been enough to prevent Sherrinford.   
“Then I suggest you trust your husband to want what you would: to be aware of what is going on. I won’t deny it might be shocking to him, or overwhelming, but I think you agree that knowing is better than not. Distancing yourself from these emotions in order to keep them from hurting him will only make him feel like you don’t trust him, or are distancing yourself from _him_ instead. That will not bode well for a healthy relationship.” Dr Waters stated, knowing the subtle threat of losing the one thing her patient seemed to hold dear would be enough to make him think about it at least. Ideally, Mr Holmes would talk to her about it all, but it seemed she would need to gain a lot more trust and familiarity before the man would open up. They may not have that time.  
“Gregory is going to ask John, Sherlock’s friend, about the events that transpired.” Mycroft reasoned, hoping to be exonerated of the obligation he now felt to share.   
“He needs to hear it from you. More specifically, how you experienced the events and how you feel now. Only you can do that.”   
“I would rather just put it all behind me.”  
“That is the ultimate goal, yes, but not like this. We need to work through these things so they stop causing problems before we can move on from them. Pushing memories, trauma, away while they are still damaging you will only ensure you are never free from it.” 

Mycroft wanted to say he didn’t see that happening, but again, the doctor’s reasoning was sound. The problems with doing so were his own, more indications of his failings. He could remember trying to tell Gregory not to suppress his emotions all those years ago, that it wasn’t healthy. In a way, their roles _had_ been reversed; Mycroft had felt the strain of Gregory’s depression, but he had been glad to help. He stifled a groan… therapy was seeming like more trouble than it was worth, as he’d predicted. He wasn’t feeling better…if anything, he felt worse. 

He didn’t manage to speak much for the remainder of the time, but merely nodded to the direct questions the doctor asked him. Just the beginnings of the hour-long session had drained him. He ended up with a prescription for antidepressants, which he’d wanted to argue against, but found himself just submitting and accepting them. Dr Waters apparently didn’t trust him with sleeping pills to help with the nightmares, given his recent suicide attempt. Mycroft could understand it, but was a little annoyed that he was treated like an incompetent teenager. Explaining that he had been manipulated into it was utterly ineffective at persuading her… if anything, it strengthened her resolve. Apparently Mycroft’s insistence in trying to just avoid the situation - nightmares included - was telling enough of the anguish he was in.


	9. Unconditional

Mycroft returned home feeling exhausted. He was trying to push the emotions away, trying to keep that icy hollow feeling out of his chest… but it wouldn’t leave him. He opened the front door to find Gregory standing there, waiting for him, with a sympathetic smile and open arms. Mycroft took one step forward and leant into the embrace, Gregory’s arms holding him tightly. He tried to breathe regularly, but it was proving difficult.   
“I’m glad you’re back.” Greg uttered, feeling Mycroft’s tension.   
“As am I.” Mycroft admitted. The cold he felt inside was being pushed away just from feeling the warmth of Gregory’s loving hold. Gregory pulled away to lift his hands to his cheeks, gently stroking them with his thumbs.   
“I love you. I can’t make up for what you missed out on in the past, but I can try give you enough care and support now that it won’t matter anymore. I want you to know that. And I want you to know that it’s completely _unconditional_ , Myc… you don’t have to earn the right to be cared for, and you don’t have to do anything to thank me for it. You understand?” Greg said firmly, his caring chocolate gaze piercing into Mycroft’s soul.   
“Th-thank you, dear.” Mycroft mumbled, attempting to keep the emotions from spilling over into tears down his face. Gregory had spoken with John, it seemed, and made some insightful deductions of his own. 

“You don’t look so good, Myc.” Greg commented, noticing Mycroft’s pale face and slight tremble. “Come on, let’s get you into something more comfortable and we can cuddle on the couch. It’s over for now, and I’m here, ok?”   
“I am perfectly capable of sitting on a couch in my current attire.” Mycroft stated.   
“You’re home, Myc. You’re safe. You don’t have to wear your armour here. I know it makes you feel comfortable to wear your suits, but I think something more relaxed is better for at home. There’s nothing here to fight against, no hiding behind a façade needed.” Greg explained. He knew Mycroft used his suits as a kind of shield to hide behind, protecting him from the outside world. He had no doubt that the man really did love looking good, and Greg couldn’t deny he felt the same, but he wanted Mycroft to feel like it was ok to be more exposed at home when things weren’t ok. Mycroft tended to try hide behind large words and formal suits when feeling particularly vulnerable.   
“I… very well.” Mycroft agreed. His husband knew him very well. 

Greg settled into the back of the couch, making room for Mycroft to lay in front of him. Mycroft had changed into his chinos, relaxed shirt, and blue cashmere jumper. Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft, humming at the soft fabric, and started to gently stroke him up and down along his sternum. Greg kissed him on his temple before leaning his head back against the couch.   
“I was prescribed with antidepressants.” Mycroft shared into the comfortable silence.   
“That’s good, Sunshine. I know you think it’s a failure on your part, but really… it’s a good thing. I think mine have helped me… I mean, given the circumstances.”   
“What do you mean?”  
“I mean I may not have coped as well as I have thus far without them.” Greg said, aware that Mycroft hadn’t seen him as ‘coping’ particularly well in the wake of past events. Thankfully, his husband said nothing.   
“I am afraid they will impede my mental acuity.”   
“I can’t say yes or no there, but I can say I don’t give a damn.”  
“Gregory…”  
“I’m serious. I’d rather have you here as a partial genius than to have lost a whole one.” Greg said, his voice conveying his concern. Mycroft shifted uncomfortably upon him. “Hey, no… that wasn’t to make you feel guilty, love. It just means that even if you lose some of your sharpness, it doesn’t matter in the slightest. I love you for everything you are, not just that big brain of yours.”   
“Thank you, Gregory.” Mycroft uttered quietly. He still felt guilty over, well, everything… but the psychiatrist’s words regarding the vicious cycle of hurt his guilt caused wouldn’t leave him. It didn’t help to assuage the guilt, however. Regardless of how emotionally taxing the session had been, it had helped to give him the courage to talk more openly with Gregory. He was about to speak, when his husband beat him to it.   
“Do you want to talk about the session?”   
“There is not much else to tell, really. She… was very blatant with me.”  
“Good, you need someone like that. Someone that’s not going to, excuse my language, fall for your shit. I don’t mean that you do it on purpose, but you do naturally try manipulate the situation so you’re in control.” Greg said, his voice affectionate despite his stern words. Mycroft nodded against him. “Did you talk about Sherrinford?”   
“No. I’m sorry. I couldn’t.”  
“It’s fine, sweetheart. I didn’t expect you to open up completely on the first go! I just wanted you to _try_ and be open, is all. Would you like to tell me what you did talk about?”  
“Y-yes, I do.” Mycroft said, taking a deep breath. “We talked about my guilt, in part. How I feel I need to protect you from the pain I cause you… by not talking to you about my own suffering.”  
“Well that’s ridiculous…” Greg interrupted. Mycroft grumbled unhappily upon him. “Sorry.”   
“Yes, well. She made me consider the situation in reverse, and I realised that I would not fare better being left in the dark about your state of being. I remember when I was caring for you at the start of our relationship, and even though I felt… stressed… regarding your emotional turmoil, I appreciated being trusted and given the opportunity to help support the man I loved. I do not wish to make you feel unwanted or untrusted, my dear Gregory. I need you, more than… anything. I want to try be open with you, I really do… but I need you to understand how difficult it is for me to do so, and therefore to not hold resentment against me for failing on occasion.” Mycroft spoke. He was glad that he was leaning against Gregory, and thus not having to look him in the eye whilst talking. He appreciated the slow, repetitive motion of Gregory’s hand up and down his chest; it was soothing his nerves enough to actually get the words out. It was something he really wanted to convey.

“Turn around.” Greg stated. He heard a confused grunt from Mycroft, but the man obliged him anyway. Greg released his hold so Mycroft could twist around so they lay pressed together, chest to chest. He looked at Mycroft’s confused face, before leaning forward and kissing him deeply. “Thank you.” Greg spoke, breaking the kiss briefly, before retuning his lip’s to his husband’s.   
Mycroft felt the anxiety that had been swirling in his gut subside, replaced with a calm warmth spreading through his chest. His body tingled as Gregory ran his fingers through his hair while they kissed.   
_Gregory is here for me._

Mycroft refused to allow the negative thoughts that tried to question why this wonderful man would stand by his side through all of his mess. Instead, he kissed Gregory harder, sliding his tongue into his love’s mouth. Gregory hummed in enjoyment; usually Mycroft let him take the lead, and was rarely so bold as to initiate. As his feelings of love for Gregory increased, so did the feeling of depression in his gut… and he seemed powerless to stop it. It seemed all-or-nothing when it came to these emotions, Mycroft thought with despair. He was met with a new form of guilt: feeling hollow and horrible for feeling depressed while being affectionate with Gregory.   
_Will this never stop eating at me?_

Mycroft broke their kiss and screwed up his face, curling up more upon Greg’s chest. Greg opened his eyes in confusion, and saw the tears starting to fall on Mycroft’s cheek. “Oh, Sunshine…” Greg hummed, using his thumb to wipe one of the tears away.   
“I’m sorry…” Mycroft mumbled, shuffling further down to rest his head on Gregory’s chest.   
“Don’t be sorry, Myc. Emotions… they get overwhelming and sometimes they don’t do what you want them to no matter how much you shout at them. You seem to have forgotten everything you said to me when I was broken and you were looking after me. I remember a certain handsome man asking me out after I had a panic attack from thinking I wasn’t stable enough for him.”   
“I don’t want to be broken anymore, Greg.” Mycroft uttered, his face pressed against the fabric of Gregory’s shirt. He felt strong hands upon his back, one rubbing circles over his shoulder blades and the other resting upon his lumbar.   
“I know, love. It’s going to take time… and it probably won’t be like it was before. But that can be a good thing too, you know? It certainly was for me… I got you, after all. And you know I’m going to be here for you always.” Greg said slowly and soothingly, pressing a kiss onto Mycroft’s auburn head. 

“I don’t deserve your care… I’m such a failure, look where…”  
“No, I’m going to stop you right there. You do deserve care, Myc. You absolutely do. You’re not a failure. You did the best you could in fucking terrible situation that you never should’ve had to deal with. I know you can’t believe me now with all of that mess inside you, so I will tell you every day until you can start to believe it, you hear?”   
“I love you, Gregory. I don’t des…” Mycroft started, but stopped himself once hearing the deep growl emanate from his husband’s throat.  
“You are wonderful, amazing, and you absolutely deserve someone to care about you. I will shout at anyone who says otherwise.” Greg stated with a smile.   
“Remind me to keep you away from my parents, then.” Mycroft grumbled. He froze when he heard Gregory’s breathing cease, and an awkward chuckle noise escape his lips. He lifted his head and saw a peculiar expression on his husband’s face… one that reminded him of the time he caught Sherlock putting laxatives into the cupcake intended for his school bully. The one that said: I’ve done something you don’t like but I’m not sorry. “Gregory?”  
“Um, about that…”  
“What did you do?!” Mycroft snapped, the hollowness inside him now filled with panic.   
“What any husband should have done! I wanted to get them to see you did your best, but your mother wouldn’t have it, and so I told them to keep away from you until they decided to behave like parents. I’d do it again, Myc, because you do not deserve to be treated that way. I won’t have it.” Greg responded firmly. He didn’t shout, but he made it clear in his tone that he was not remorseful at all. “I’m sorry if you’re upset by it, but I’m not sorry I did it. People that serve to hurt you like that have no place in your life.” 

Mycroft wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. Gregory had done that for him… Gregory had willingly stood off against his mother in defence of _him_. He’d withstood what Mycroft imagined was the peak of Violet Holmes’ wrath to ensure that his husband would be alright. Instead of being angry, Mycroft felt… grateful. He clung onto Gregory’s chest tighter. In reality, it was a relief to not have to deal with his parents. The very idea of their involvement sent shivers down his spine… there was no way he’d cope with their behaviour in this state.   
“Thank you.” Mycroft whispered.   
“You don’t have to fight any of your battles alone, anymore, Myc.” Greg said softly. “I’m here with you. And Sherlock wants to help too. Even John wants to make amends, but I’d hold off on that for the time being, he’s still a bit… John. You are loved, Mycroft, by your real family.” 

As wonderful as Gregory’s words were, they triggered the pain of his memory of Sherrinford. _Family._ His sister ordering his brother to kill him, so he’d never see Gregory again. His stomach lurched. He could see the scene before him, like so many times since leaving that wretched island.   
“Every time I close my eyes, I see Sherlock there with the gun…” Mycroft strangled to say, his throat closing up in an attempt to prevent a wail. 

Greg held him firmer and let his cheek rest against Mycroft’s head. Greg had felt sick when John had told him about that. It was no wonder it was haunting his husband. Greg was just at a loss on how to help.   
“We’ll make it alright.” Greg whispered. Mycroft didn’t seem able to talk any more about it, and Greg didn’t want to push him. All Greg could do was continue to softly stroke his husband in his arms, painfully aware of how much of a miracle it was that he was still able to do so. 


	10. Honesty and Responsibility

Greg reluctantly went to answer the door. It hadn’t been a good night. Mycroft had spent most of the night with nightmares, and the times Greg had managed to fall asleep, he’d not fared much better. As such, he really wasn’t up for interacting with people, and he could only imagine how Mycroft would be feeling in that regard. He sighed when he saw it was Sherlock and John standing there.   
“Sherlock, this isn’t a good time.” Greg announced as he answered the door.   
“I’m sorry. It’s important.” Sherlock said, already looking a lot more subdued than normal. Greg just nodded at him, then looked at John, and let them into the house.   
“I’ll just tell you now, Mycroft really isn’t having a good day. Be gentle with him.” Greg said in hushed tones as they walked down the hall to the kitchen. Sherlock frowned at him in confusion, so Greg stopped just short of the doorway and looked directly at the taller man. “He’s exhausted, and the nightmares have left him a bit shaken. He’s feeling really vulnerable right now, and just doesn’t have the strength to keep it together today.”   
“That doesn’t sound good at all, no.” John commented with concern.  
“Also very unlike him.” Sherlock mumbled.   
“It’s exactly like him, Sherlock, now. You’re going to just have to accept that the stoic, always-in-control, detached older brother persona just isn’t who he is anymore, and likely won’t be again.”  
“I understand.”  
“Do you?” Greg snapped a little forcefully, but then groaned an apology while rubbing his face. He felt Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder, and so looked into the piercing blue eyes.   
“I do, a lot more than I did before. I am not here to confront him about anything, Greg. Our parents have been to see me and I believe he should be made aware of the proceedings, and I… want to see him.” Sherlock said quietly, shifting his feet uncomfortably at the end and dropping his hand.   
“Alright,” Greg conceded, “You can go talk to him; but John and I will be in the next room, and so help me Sherlock if you distress him…”  
“I’ll do my best.” Sherlock interrupted, and walked past Greg. 

“You don’t seem to be doing so well either, mate.” John said, remaining with Greg.   
“It’s fine. I’ll manage.” Greg grumbled.   
“It’s not fine, Greg. This is hard on you too and you need to take care of yourself as well. You’re no good to him if you burn out too.” John said with a grimace. “Are you still seeing your therapist?”  
“Yeah, occasionally. I can’t really see her all that often.”  
“I’d seriously recommend trying to increase the frequency, even just for a bit. I don’t want to overstep my bounds by saying this; but you’re married to Mycroft, so you don’t have to worry about the expense of paying for extra sessions. It’s not ‘extravagant’ to spend that on something you need.”   
Greg eyed John for a moment, considering his words. He then closed his eyes and nodded. “Yeah, alright. I’ll see what I can do. Come on, we might as well sit at the table since it seems Sherlock and Myc are staying in the lounge.” 

Mycroft jumped and bolted upright when Sherlock appeared in the doorway, and instantly panicked over what brought him there. He really didn’t want to see his brother today. He’d been feeling shaky ever since getting out of bed, and had curled up into a ball and cried in Gregory’s arms twice already. As Sherlock looked at him, he was having trouble controlling his breathing… but was getting more distressed than anything because his attempts were futile. He waited, frozen, for Sherlock to make a snide comment. Sherlock, on the contrary, said nothing and moved to sit in the chair closest to the couch Mycroft had previously been laying on.   
Sherlock looked his brother over, and noticed that Greg hadn’t been exaggerating. Mycroft having difficulty with feelings was still a relatively new revelation for Sherlock, and yet he was presented with the sight of his brother in the midst of a breakdown. Sherlock wasn’t sure what he should do or say. They remained in an uncomfortable silence, listening to the sounds of Greg and John getting tea in the kitchen.   
“Would you like some tea, brother mine?” Sherlock asked quietly.   
Mycroft did, but he was acutely aware of the fact he’d be unable to keep the cup steady, and so shook his head. 

“Why are you here, Sherlock?” Mycroft finally managed to ask.   
“Well, I firstly wanted to see you.”  
“Why?”  
“Because I… care… about your wellbeing, and want to help if I can.” Sherlock said awkwardly. He was not accustomed to this ‘taking care of others’ thing.   
“You would be having difficulty enough yourself; I would have expected you to remain hidden away.” Mycroft grumbled. He couldn’t deny feeling a little resentful over the fact that in the past, when times had been tough for them both, Mycroft had always had to put himself aside and take care of Sherlock. It was no secret that Sherlock had acted out dangerously when not coping in the past, and it had always been Mycroft’s responsibility.   
“I admit that… things… are difficult, still,” Sherlock said uncomfortably, “However I am managing reasonably well. I remember it all clearly now, from my new perspective, and as such I cannot express how indebted to you I am.”  
Mycroft eyed Sherlock carefully, but didn’t allow himself to speak lest his voice broke. It was good to know that Sherlock was coping with the upturning of his life.   
“You were always there for me when I acted appallingly to you. I’d always felt like you were the enemy, trying to control my life… but I can see now you only wanted to take care of me and I fear that part of my resentment towards you was from Eurus’ dislike of you.” Sherlock said cautiously. He instantly regretted saying Eurus’ name, since Mycroft visibly flinched upon hearing it. He needed to make sure that Mycroft knew, however, that he didn’t see his older brother in that light anymore.   
“Sh-Sherlock, please, can we do this another time?” Mycroft strangled out. He wanted to curl up again, and it was taking everything to just not cry right then and there. He was beyond trying to work out _why_ the blasted emotions swirled such as to make him cry at random, or small, things today.   
Sherlock noticed the struggle, and gave a pained expression in return. He swallowed. “Actually, I have come _today_ because our parents spoke to me yesterday and I felt you should know about it.”   
“Why not send one of your infernal texts then?” Mycroft snapped, a flare of anger rising.   
“Because it is more appropriate to discuss in person. If you are really … incapable… of talking about this now, I can come back tomorrow. However I did not want you to panic if you were informed of their actions and had no prior information about it.”   
“Actions?” Mycroft asked, dread filling him. As horrible as he felt, he agreed with Sherlock in that he did actually want to know everything as soon as possible.   
“Yes. They… intend to visit Sherrinford.”  
Mycroft stilled. He lost focus on taking one breath after another. He knew this was coming, he knew that they would demand to see Eurus. He couldn’t stop the images of Sherrinford flashing before his eyes, and before he knew it, he found himself back there at Eurus’ mercy. Her detached, emotionless demeanour as she killed again and again, the blood of the Governor shooting himself, the gun pointed at him… 

“Greg! John!” Sherlock called out, having jumped out of the chair and stood directly before Mycroft. He’d not responded to Sherlock, and just remained shaking and hyperventilating. The two men rushed into the room.   
“Sherlock! What did you do?” Greg snapped,   
“What happened?” John asked, immediately kneeling before Mycroft.   
“I… I just told him that our parents have asked to see Eurus…” Sherlock said, standing in somewhat of a shock to the situation. It was obvious he’d not thought this would have happened. Greg understood it, but still frowned at him before joining John.   
“Mycroft?” Greg asked gently. His husband was mumbling words under his breath, between large gasps, but they were all for a situation in his mind. He reached out to hold him, but was stopped by John.   
“He’s having a flashback, touching him might not be best right now.”   
“It was alright before…”  
“Was it as bad as this before?”  
“No, actually. He wasn’t … gone… so much.” Greg all-but whimpered.   
“Well, maybe try just slowly…”   
Greg nodded and reached out to hold Mycroft’s hand.   
“Hey, love, it’s ok. You’re safe, you’re home. You’re here with me, yeah?” Greg cooed softly. It had helped before, but those times Mycroft still seemed to have a slight awareness of where he was.   
“Sherlock, get a blanket.” John commanded. Sherlock nodded and left the room, grateful to be of assistance. 

“He’s going to pass out soon if he doesn’t stop hyperventilating.” John mumbled, and Greg frowned in concern. Mycroft didn’t seem to be reacting violently to touch, and so John figured it would be safe for Greg to hold him. “Try holding him, it might help, just be careful.”   
Greg nodded and continued to speak softly, glad that Mycroft didn’t flinch away from Greg’s arms slowly sliding around him. Sherlock returned with the blanket and passed it to John.   
“What do I do to snap him out of it John?” Greg pleaded.   
“There’s not a whole lot we can do, Greg, until he becomes more aware. Just keep talking to him. It’s not a ‘snap out of it’ process… it’s just slowly coming back. Hold onto him fairly tightly if he’ll let you, since that sensation can help ground people.” John explained clinically, despite Greg knowing there was a fair bit of experience on his end.   
“I’ve got you, Myc, you’re safe. You’re in the living room.” Greg said gently, while applying more pressure to his embrace. Greg wanted to growl at Sherlock, but snapping ‘I told you he wasn’t ok to talk today’ wouldn’t help the situation. 

Thankfully, Greg could feel his husband’s shaking subside and his breathing become less ragged.   
“Mycroft? Mycroft are you with me? You’re safe, you’re in the living room, it’s over now.” Greg spoke.   
“Greg, he’s going to be really confused.” John uttered quietly. Greg nodded.   
“I think it’s best if Sherlock leave the room.” Greg said, his eyes flicking up at Sherlock. The man looked still shocked, but nodded and walked away silently.   
“Mycroft, it’s ok. You had a flashback, that’s all. Greg’s got you, alright? We’re just going to lay you down now.” John said, noticing the confused, yet more aware, face Mycroft was making. He looked up at Greg who nodded and started to lay Mycroft down on the couch. John then picked up the blanket and draped it over him.   
Greg moved from the couch to kneel in front of Mycroft again. “It’s ok, Sunshine. Don’t feel embarrassed. These things happen and they’re not your fault.” Greg said, looking directly at Mycroft’s blushing face. He could see the anxiety returning, and Greg wanted to try stamp that out before it got bad again. He reached out and took Mycroft’s shaking hand. “I’m here, love, ok? Just focus on me.” 

Mycroft still looked very distressed over not only the events of flashback, but that it had happened at all. Greg guessed the fact that they were all there to witness it wasn’t exactly helping the feelings of anxiety and self-hatred. Mycroft still liked to present as if everything was alright, as if he was strong enough to cope.   
“Can he have some valium?” Greg asked quietly, turning to John.  
“Yeah, does he have some?”  
“In the study, top drawer.” Greg answered, and John nodded to fetch it. 

“Greg…” Mycroft mumbled, sounding defeated.   
“Shh, it’s ok love.” Greg said, stroking Mycroft’s hair gently with his other hand. “Don’t talk about it. Just try calm down for now. We’ll take care of you.”   
“Sorry.” Mycroft said, his eyes falling to the ground.   
“No. Don’t be sorry. This isn’t your fault. But we’ll manage, yeah? We’ll work on it. Don’t you start thinking you’re weak or something because of this, or because Sherlock is coping better. I know you’re thinking it. Just focus on me, and on taking deep breaths.” Greg said, kissing Mycroft’s sweaty forehead.

John returned with a pill and a glass of water. “Mycroft, this’ll help you a little, but you’re going to need to sit up a bit to take it, ok?”   
Mycroft nodded and obliged. Greg moved to sit up on the couch’s arm so that he could keep softly stroking his husband’s head.   
“It’s ok to be overwhelmed by the feelings. Do you want to talk about them?” Greg asked gently.   
Mycroft shook his head. “No.” He really didn’t want to talk about anything at all. He could still feel the panic of it all, see the blood in his mind’s eye, feel the dread of the end coming as they stood in that room together.   
“Mycroft, you need to just focus on what’s around you, ok? Notice the feel of the blanket and Greg’s hand, breath deeply, pay attention to the environment you’re in, ok? Don’t try and think about Sherrinford or analyse your feelings.” John instructed. Mycroft nodded in response while Greg sunk into himself, muttering an apology. 

After some agonising minutes for Greg, Mycroft relaxed and looked more exhausted than panicked. John suggested that Mycroft would benefit from being left alone for a little in the dark; and so Greg reluctantly got up, turned off the light, and went into the kitchen with John.   
Sherlock stood immediately. “Greg, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”  
“It’s ok Sherlock, I’m not angry. I know you tried not to upset him. I just wish you’d have come back tomorrow instead.” Greg sighed.  
“I thought it’d be ok. Our parents came to me yesterday, and I know that they’re going to be speaking to Mycroft’s people today about Eurus if they haven’t already. I didn’t want him to be alerted to that without any warning.” Sherlock explained.   
“Alright, I understand. What exactly did your parents say?” Greg asked, wondering if he needed to take further action.   
“They, well, they do not like you right now.” Sherlock said with an eyebrow flicker.   
“Good.” Greg grumbled. He explained to a confused John that he’d shouted at them for their treatment of Mycroft.  
“Yes, well. Mummy was still furious, and was ready to have your head, Greg. She’s more pissed off than anything that legally Mycroft’s care falls to you, and therefore you get a say over what she can and can’t do. No one has really stood up to her before.”  
“Good.” Greg grumbled again, looking pleased with himself.   
“Father was a bit more sympathetic to Mycroft’s position, and asked how he was going. I responded that he isn’t coping, that he spent a night in hospital following a suicide attempt, and is on medically-mandated leave until further notice. I think they were both a bit shocked with the information, but Mummy seems to have decided that I was lying about it or that she hadn’t heard because it was inconvenient to know. Father was rather upset, actually. Not even Mum’s snapping at him changed his opinion and he even told her right out that they should care for Mycroft too.”  
“Oh, good… and how’d that go down?” Greg said with a surprised look on his face.   
“She shot him down; but he asked me, as they were leaving, to keep him updated. He said: ‘I just got my daughter back. I don’t want to lose my son over it’.” Sherlock concluded.   
“I’m glad, actually. I mean, he’s always seemed more caring towards people than your mother has. She… well, she was pretty protective of you, Sherlock, without any shits given about Mycroft. I think that over time Myc could talk with his dad again. Siger might even be able to soften your mother about it all, but let’s not hold out hope for that one yet.” Greg said, rubbing the back of his neck.   
“It’s a difficult situation.” John stated into the quiet, and both Greg and Sherlock turned to look at him. “What? It is.” John defended, shrugging. 

Greg re-boiled the kettle, and sat at the table with the two men and some tea. He was not looking forward to having to go back to work on Monday and leaving Mycroft alone when he was this unstable.   
“I’m really concerned about him.” Greg stated out of nowhere.   
“I am too, actually.” Sherlock said, the worry evident on his face. Greg smiled at him. 

“Sherlock?”   
Everyone turned to look at Mycroft standing in the doorway to the living room.   
“Myc…” Greg said, standing, but Mycroft raised his hand at him. He sat back down.  
“Gregory, I need to talk with my brother. It’s ok.” 

Sherlock nodded and stood, sending Greg a glance before walking over to Mycroft. Greg watched him leave, and then just rubbed his face in his hands, his elbows on the table. He sat upright and took a breath.   
“You alright?” John asked him.   
“Nope.” Greg answered simply. John merely nodded.   
“Sherlock’ll be considerate, don’t worry.” John tried to comfort.   
“Yeah, I know. He’s … he’s grown up, now. He’s finally ready.” Greg mused.   
“Ready? For what?”  
“For you, John. He finally can be a responsible adult who cares for other people. He’s loved you for years, but he’s never been ready for anything to come of it until now.” Greg stated with a smile.   
“What?” John gasped in shock.  
“Oh come on, surely you knew. The man’s been besotted with you since you first met. He’s been willing to die for you at least three, no, four times now. He practically married himself to you at your wedding. You made him better because you made him love, John.”   
“What?” John repeated, unable to understand. Greg sighed and rolled his eyes.   
“Jumping off the building wasn’t fool-proof, shooting Magnussen led him to be assigned on a suicide mission, he was weeks from dying of drugs while chasing a serial killer that almost suffocated him in a hospital, and he was going to shoot himself instead of killing either you or his brother. He stated he’d never make another vow again other than the one to you, at your wedding. Jesus John, you’ve got to be thick to not see that he’s so in love with you he would do, and has done, anything for you.” Greg explained.   
John was stunned, thinking back over his history with Sherlock.   
“And, you love him too.” Greg said with a grin, drinking his tea.   
“I’m not gay.” John snapped, annoyed.   
“Doesn’t mean you don’t love him. Listen John, we’ve all had fun waiting for you to realise that what you feel for him is love, but it’s looking like you’re really not gonna get it so I’m telling you. Sure, it might not be sexual, but that’s ok with Sherlock. I’ll let him talk to you about that and maybe you’ll both change that in time. The point is… you’ve been with him for almost what, six years now? No one else has been as important as him… even when Mary came along, and I know you’re going to argue but there was a lot of resentment against Sherlock for his betrayal going on then.”  
“But I’m NOT GAY.” John insisted, frowning.   
“John, it doesn’t have to be _men_. Sometimes it’s just the one man. Sometimes you find someone that is so right for you, with whom you bond with so much, that things like gender don’t matter. I think you know it, and that you’ve got this idea about yourself you’re not willing to give up; you’re not allowing yourself the chance of getting more out of the most important relationship you’ve had in your whole life. Listen to me as your friend. Sherlock is your partner. It might not be a sexual partner, but he fills up your life. Think about it, and talk with him.” 

John felt like arguing, but a lot of what Greg had said was hauntingly true. Living with Sherlock, as he would be doing once the flat was finished, was essentially the married life he’d always wanted. Raising a child, domesticity, occasional adrenaline rushes… and it was with Sherlock. The only part of the idea of Sherlock being his partner that made John hesitate was the sex aspect, since he’d wanted a lot of that in a married life as well. 

Before either of them could talk more, or John could contemplate his revelation further, they heard raised voices from the living room. Greg and John immediately got up to investigate.   
“Absolutely not, Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped, standing, still visibly shaken and worn down.   
“Sherlock…” Greg warned.   
“Please Mycroft… I know after everything that happened it’s safer to keep away… but the only reason John’s alive, that probably any of us are, is because I came to her as a brother and showed her care. She wants that. Please let me visit her.”  
“No, it’s … it’s too dangerous.” Mycroft hissed. Greg took a tentative step closer to him, just in case.   
“She had no one, Myc.” Sherlock pleaded.   
“NEITHER DID I!” Mycroft shouted, and looked like he was about to drop to his knees. Greg rushed forward and grasped him in a tight hug.   
“Alright, that’s enough. Sherlock… go. Don’t talk to Mycroft about this again. He’s not in charge of it anymore, and so isn’t to be involved anymore… you hear me? If you have requests to make, address them to the proper authorities.” Greg said commandingly. He then released Mycroft and looked directly at him. “And you, Mycroft, are not to involve yourself either. What Sherlock does is not your concern anymore. He’s an adult and can make his own decisions now. You are not responsible for him.” 

Sherlock remained motionless, looking at Mycroft. He realised that Mycroft was right… he _hadn’t_ had anyone, either. He stepped forward despite the warning glare from Greg, and embraced his brother tightly.   
“I’m sorry, brother mine.” Sherlock said softly.   
Sherlock released him, swirled on the spot, and rushed out of the room… calling for John to follow. Greg looked sternly at John, and raised and eyebrow at him. John nodded in return, and then left. 

“Ok Myc, why don’t we sit and listen to some music for a while, hm?” Greg asked, helping Mycroft back down onto the couch before heading over and putting on one of Mycroft’s favourite vinyls. He returned to the couch and held onto Mycroft firmly, which seemed to help calm him down.   
“Gregory? When you say I am not to be involved anymore,” Mycroft started, gathering courage, “Do you mean for me not to receive updates at all as well?”  
“Yes.” Greg stated plainly.   
“But…” Mycroft began, but closed his mouth with a sigh.   
“What is it, Sunshine?”  
“I… I still wish to be apprised to Eurus’ situation.”  
“You don’t have to worry about that anymore Myc, you aren’t responsible for her now.”  
“No… I… I need…” Mycroft stuttered, and Gregory allowed him the time to formulate the words. “I need to know she’s secure.”   
“Oh.” Greg mouthed, suddenly realising the reasons behind it. “You… you can still be told about that, Myc.” Greg decided to say, not wanting to increase the man’s anxiety any further. Greg hadn’t been aware Mycroft had been so anxious about knowing his sister was still locked away; but really, it made sense given the circumstances of his post traumatic stress and his childhood. Her getting out would be a direct threat on Mycroft’s life and the lives of those he loved… not to mention anyone else that happened to cross the psychopath’s mind. He hoped that eventually Mycroft’s paranoia would subside, and he’d be able to be blissfully unaware of Eurus’ containment situation. However for now, Greg decided it was best to just leave Mycroft to do things that made him feel safe… being updated about his sister included. 


	11. Joint Therapy

Greg had suggested that he accompany Mycroft to his next therapy session, as he’d need to go back to work in a few days, and Mycroft had enthusiastically agreed. Greg wasn’t sure what to expect, or even if he was allowed to attend, but Mycroft had been rather insistent. He’d practically clung to Greg since leaving the house, which led Greg to believe he was actually afraid of going. Not just disliking the sharing and questions by a stranger, but honestly afraid. Even as they sat together in the waiting room, Greg holding onto Mycroft’s hand, Mycroft was still trembling. 

“You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to, really.” Greg said quietly, trying to calm him. “There are things that she should know, of course, to better help you… but you should take it at a pace you’re at least somewhat comfortable with.”  
Mycroft looked at him and nodded. “But…” He began, but was cut off with Greg shaking his head.   
“No, you can’t think of this as just a means to an end, with that end being you returning to work. Yes; being honest about how things are will likely mean you’ll be kept off work for longer. However… it’s needed, Myc. You can’t pretend everything is fine so you don’t get the help you need to return to a job that’ll make things worse. Even you should be able to see how ridiculous that is.”   
“I am afraid of being away so long… situations are delicate, and the position will need to be filled, and many people are eager to do so without the competence to…”  
“Mycroft… please stop thinking about the world or your work all the time. You have to start thinking about _you_. Alright?” Greg pleaded, his eyes concerned.   
“You want to bring up the flashback.” Mycroft stated dejectedly.   
“Yes, I do. It’s important for her to know what we’re up against, Myc. Surely you can appreciate being unable to make the right decisions without all of the information.” 

Gregory’s words hit him hard: yes, he could appreciate that. Having to make uninformed decisions had been a major stressor in his early life. He was gaining a better understanding of just what he needed to do, even if he downright despised himself for it. He closed his eyes and nodded slightly. He could feel Gregory grinning at him for it, and was rewarded with the sight once he opened his eyes. 

“Mr Holmes.” Dr Waters called out as she opened her door. Mycroft stood, but refused to let go of Gregory’s hand, pulling him to his feet as well.   
“I have brought Gregory.” Mycroft stated.   
“I can see that. Nice to meet you, Gregory. Please, do come in.” Dr Waters said with a smile, and gestured to the chairs in her office. “Whilst I generally prefer to talk with my patients without their spouses, I find that meeting them early on often is helpful.”   
Greg nodded to her, understanding the implication that this was not to be a regular thing. “I have to go back to work on Monday, and so wanted to take the opportunity while I had it.” Greg said, sitting in one of the two chairs opposite the doctor.   
“What was it exactly that you hoped to gain from attending?”  
“Oh… uh… I’m not really sure. I wanted to help Myc calm down a bit since he was rather anxious about attending; and I wanted to make sure that you were told some things that I don’t trust Mycroft to bring up.” Greg said. Mycroft was right about her: she was very direct, almost arrogant. Greg found it rather intimidating compared to the gentle and warm approach of his psychologist.   
“And why is that?” She asked, looking between them.   
Greg frowned slightly and darted his eyes to Mycroft; he sunk into himself and looked away, indicating that he wasn’t going to be the one to answer. “Because Mycroft likes people to think he’s doing fine, no matter how much he’s struggling. But I want him to get help, and you need to know about stuff before you can start helping him with it.”   
“Indeed. And what are the things you wanted me to know, in particular?”  
“I… shouldn’t Mycroft tell you?”  
“As you have said, it’s unlikely for him to tell me of his own accord. It is perhaps easier that you just tell me your concerns and then we can work to address them during the session and beyond.”   
“Stop talking about me as if I’m not here!” Mycroft snapped. The psychiatrist raised her eyebrow at him.  
“Then, perhaps you should act as if you are here, Mr Holmes.” She said. 

Greg frowned again and shifted in his seat. He really did not like this woman’s methods. He personally found it very confronting and even upsetting. It was no wonder why Mycroft had returned home so exhausted last time and was afraid to return. However, he couldn’t deny that she was able to get Mycroft to engage in the session rather quickly, and was not willing to stand for any of Mycroft’s manipulative techniques to undermine her authority. These sessions were undoubtedly going to be taxing for Mycroft, but they were probably what he needed. 

“I simply do not _wish_ to reveal my weaknesses. I am not _unable_ to do so. That is not a reason to talk about me instead of including me.”  
“Then, by all means, Mr Holmes… include yourself and reveal them to me.”   
Mycroft fell silent again and glared at the woman, who sat in her chair smiling. Greg watched them both, neither of them yielding to the other. He knew he shouldn’t be the one to say anything, but the tension from the power play was leaving him very uncomfortable.  
“Mr Holmes, I will not think less of you for whatever it is you are going through.” Dr Waters said gently. “But I do need to know about it if we are to work at fixing it.”   
It was the kindest thing Greg had heard from her thus far, and it relaxed him enough to reach out and take Mycroft’s hand. “Go on, Sunshine. You can do this.” Greg uttered quietly. “I’ll help, ok?”   
Mycroft nodded, focusing on Gregory’s supportive expression. He took a breath and returned his gaze to the doctor. “I have been having flashbacks.” Mycroft stated with the hint of a groan.   
“Not surprising, Mr Holmes. You needn’t be embarrassed by that.”  
“I also cannot sleep because of nightmares.”   
“Still? How many hours a night have you generally gotten since the ordeal?”   
“Uh…” Mycroft vocalised, having to seriously think. He honestly wasn’t all that sure… the times he was awake and asleep all seemed to be blurred together in a long torment.   
“Are we talking restful sleep?” Greg asked, and received a nod. “Probably only an hour, maybe two. I haven’t gotten much myself, either. He’s been actually asleep for probably close to six hours, but most of the time he’s thrashing about, screaming, or talking between the times he jumps awake.” Greg answered with a sigh.   
The doctor made a note on her pad. “How often do you wake, Mr Holmes?” She asked, despite knowing his husband would answer.   
“Several times.” Greg responded.   
“Alright. What I’m going to do is prescribe you some sleeping medication, ok Mr Holmes? However, I am giving the script to you, Gregory, and you are not to let him touch the box. You may give him one tablet at bedtime each evening, and no more. Do not tell him where you keep the box.” Dr Waters said, standing up and reaching for a prescription pad from her desk drawer. “This is a short term solution; this is only to try and allow you to have enough sleep in order to be strong enough to work through the issues themselves. I will not continue to prescribe them for you as a permanent solution as it can be all to easy to become dependent on sleeping medication, and the dose does not remain sufficient for long.” 

Greg took the yellow slip from the doctor, thanking her. He personally was grateful to have the opportunity to sleep himself, as well as for Myc to finally get some rest. He completely respected the doctor’s precautions.   
“Now, Gregory this is a question that you are better suited to answer for me: how severe are the flashbacks?”  
“I… don’t know the scale of that…” Greg said uncertainly.   
“Well, usually the more encapsulated the person is in the memory, the more severe it is. Minor flashbacks can be just arrant experiences of some of the emotions experienced in that time, and the person is left not understanding why they may, for example, be feeling anxious standing in a supermarket aisle and not even register it as a flashback to a memory. The severity increases up to the point of complete dissociation from reality, where the person experiences the memory as if it is happening to them in real-time.” Dr Waters explained.   
“Oh… um, there have been a few times when Mycroft would be overwhelmed with the memories, but still registered that he was home with me reliving the memories. It’s only been once he was completely trapped inside his mind and it took a while for us to get him to … er… come back to the present, as it were.” Greg explained whilst Mycroft looked at the floor, his cheeks red.  
The doctor made a few notes while nodding at Greg’s answer. “Ok, so there are some serious post-traumatic stress issues at work here. I would hazard a guess that you are also experiencing the lesser forms of flashback; emotionally reliving the moment without any, or minor, sensory input. You undoubtedly are having issues with anxiety, which I suspect you’ve had for most of your life, and depression as well. It is not uncommon to experience these with PTSD, but it does leave us with a lot of progress to make. I am hopeful we shall see an improvement in your mood and anxiety levels in the coming weeks once the antidepressants have had a chance to work. I want you to be aware that it is highly unlikely that you will be returning to work in three weeks time, Mr Holmes.” 

Greg squeezed Mycroft’s hand softly. He knew how hard the information would be for his husband to hear. “It’s a good thing, Myc. You’ll get a chance to get better properly.” Greg said, trying to be supportive. It broke his heart that Mycroft looked like he wanted to cry there in the office.  
“Your husband is right. With some time and effort, you will be able to return to living a happy life.” Dr Waters said.   
“You’re not failing, love, for being broken… remember? Mosaics take ages to make. Give it time.” Greg uttered softly, stroking his thumb over the top of Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft breathed in, noticeably sniffling, and nodded. 

The remainder of the session was less tense on Mycroft, once the more ‘embarrassing’ pieces of information had been released. He kept his answers short, but he was able to keep himself calm enough by closing his eyes and focusing on the gentle stroke of Gregory’s thumb on his hand. It stressed him that Gregory couldn’t attend the other sessions, but knew that the doctor was right in saying he needed to be able to stand on his own sometimes. 

The doctor took him through some steps to take when he felt a flashback occurring, and gave Gregory some advice on how to handle the situation as well. Most of it focused on ‘grounding’ himself to the reality around him through his senses. Gregory had seemed pleased that his actions thus far had been correct and helpful. Mycroft was glad when he was told he didn’t have to explain the memories or the feelings associated with them, but that relief quickly died when he was told he would need to talk to her instead of Gregory about them. He had nodded in agreement, however, when Dr Waters explained that Gregory wasn’t a trained professional in helping with PTSD, and so it wasn’t fair to unload that burden upon him with the potential of making the situation worse for both of them. Gregory had argued that he wanted to listen, which had made Mycroft’s heart leap affectionately. The conclusion had been that Mycroft could talk about his feelings and experiences with Gregory as much as he was willing, but only after the intense emotions of a flashback faded. 

~

“You did really good today, Sunshine.” Greg said softly. Mycroft had wanted to do nothing but curl up in bed the moment they’d gotten home, and Greg simply let him. He’d joined Mycroft for a while, but then gotten up to make dinner. Greg had been pleased that Mycroft ate almost all of it, and remained in the kitchen until Greg suggested they turned in early after finishing the dishes. They lay in bed together, Greg reading a novel and Mycroft laying on his side.   
“Thank you.” Mycroft responded. He’d not really felt up for talking much since the session. He appreciated Gregory’s efforts to talk to him, but he really was just exhausted.   
Greg didn’t say anything further, and continued to read his book with his reading glasses propped up on his nose. He knew to just let Mycroft have his space, but still worried about him.   
“You can tell me if you’re not feeling alright. I can try help.” Greg commented. He saw Mycroft’s head nodding. He couldn’t see his face, as his husband had his back to him, but could tell something wasn’t right. Greg closed the book and set it on the bedside table, and rested his glasses on top.   
“Myc?”  
“Would… would you hold me, please?” Mycroft whimpered softly.   
“Of course, love.” Greg responded, shuffling down and across to Mycroft’s side. He slid an arm underneath the man’s head, and the other over his waist. “Is that better?”  
“Mhm.” Mycroft hummed, gently nodding again. Feeling Gregory’s body pressed against his own helped calm the anxiety and reassured him that he wasn’t alone.   
“All you need to do is ask, dear. You know I’ll always come hold you. I just don’t know when you want your space, is all.” Greg said softly into the back of Mycroft’s head.   
“I’m sorry. I try… it’s hard.”   
“I know, dear, I know.” Greg cooed, stroking along Mycroft’s chest. “I love you and you are amazing. You got through today and you did it well. I’m proud of you.” Greg continued. Mycroft remained silent, which to Greg, was a good thing. Normally his husband tried to rebut any positive comment given to him.   
“It’s hard to think that it was only one day, and yesterday was only one day. Tomorrow is only one day too, as is the next… it all feels overwhelming.” Mycroft admitted.   
“I know how that is, dear. It’s hard. But you keep doing it. You keep taking each day and that’s so strong of you.” Greg assured as he pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s head. “You’ll get there, I know you will. We just don’t look to far into the future right now, ok?”   
“Ok.” Mycroft agreed, and shuffled to nestle himself more comfortably in his husband’s arms. 


	12. Massages

Greg was having trouble concentrating. Mycroft was home alone, and while he’d been assured that his husband would call in case of not coping, he still found himself worrying.   
“Geez, I’d decline that MI5 job next time… you’ve come back looking wrecked.” Sally commented from the doorway.   
“Hello to you too, Sally.” Greg sighed.   
“Seriously though, everything ok?”   
Greg looked up at her and studied her expression for a moment. She seemed to be genuine with her concern, but only interested in a short answer. “Not really, but it’s just personal stuff.” Greg ended up saying.   
“Right, well, I wanted to see if you were going to join us for lunch. We wanna hear all about the secret mission.” Sally grinned.   
“If it were a secret mission, then I’d not be able to tell you. Which I can’t.”  
“Well come join us anyway… you look like you could use a break.” Sally said, and waited by the door.   
Greg realised that she wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and so just stood up and went to his bag on the chair by the door to fish out his sandwich. He put a few of the items aside to reach the container.   
“Umm… boss? Should I be concerned about you?” Sally asked slowly. Greg looked up at her with an quizzical expression. “You’ve got a box of sleeping pills with you… and you’re not looking so great…” Sally continued, shifting uncomfortably.   
Greg didn’t bother asking how she knew the box was ‘sleeping pills’. He just sighed; he was somewhat grateful for the concern, but mostly just tired and worried. “They’re not mine, Sal, they’re Mycroft’s. I’m keeping them away from him just in case.” Greg said honestly. He knew Sally had heard about Mycroft’s suicide attempt, but they’d not really talked about it. Greg appreciated that she kept it to herself.   
“Ah. Good, good. Listen though, if you ever need to talk… I’m here, ok? I know we don’t really do that, but I get how hard this is for you and the need to be strong for him, so…” Sally offered in a quick mouthful, so that Lestrade wouldn’t interrupt her.   
“Thanks.” Greg mumbled, having shoved everything back in his bag. He didn’t want to make his work environment complicated by sharing difficulties of his home life, but he appreciated the offer none the less. 

The remainder of the day had gone fairly well; that was, until, Sherlock appeared in his doorway.   
“What did you say to him?” Sherlock blurted out as he walked in uninvited and took a seat.   
“Come in, have a seat…” Greg mumbled.   
“Save the sarcasm, Greg, and tell me what you said to him.”  
“Sherlock you’re going to have to be more specific.” Greg said carefully, maintaining a calm exterior. His instincts told him this was a ‘John-related’ visit, but his gut was panicking over Mycroft.   
“John. He’s acting all… strange.”  
“Alright, strange in what way? I’ve said a few things to him… if he’s stopped being a dick, then it was probably me telling him to stop being a dick.” Greg sighed. He wasn’t up for this conversation today.   
“You know to what I am referring!” Sherlock snapped. His frustration was evident, and so Greg just sighed again and rubbed his face with his hands.   
“Shut the door, will you?” Greg asked, and Sherlock hesitantly obliged. Greg wondered briefly how he was going to handle this, but thought … fuck it, it wasn’t really his problem. “I told him that you love him and that you’re ready for a relationship with him.”  
“You WHAT?”  
“And,” Greg said over the protest, “That he needs to pull his head out and see that he’s already your partner, and so could get more out of the relationship than he’s willing to let himself right now. That sometimes it’s just falling in love with one man, and not being gay for all men.” Greg continued calmly. Sherlock’s rage was palpable, but Greg was pleased to find he really didn’t care. He had enough to deal with, and the relationship that had been danced about between Sherlock and John wasn’t on his list.   
“What made you think you could interfere like that?” Sherlock asked, his voice dangerously low.  
“The fact that my brother-in-law and my best friend are living together now and raising a child, the former hopelessly in love with the blind repressed latter, made me want to just slap some sense into him. If you’re here to just berate me because John’s having a mid-life crisis around you, then you can leave because I’m not going to put up with it. If you’re here to thank me because John is going to admit he reciprocates his feelings for you, then you’re welcome.” Greg said, a frown on his face and a stern ‘don’t mess with me’ tone of voice.   
“He… has not admitted as such, just been more awkward and observing ‘us’ more. He said that you made him think about some things. I… well I thought he was considering leaving…” Sherlock mumbled, a little awkward. “However now, considering what you’ve told him, that is not the most likely outcome.”  
“Good. Go deal with it between yourselves,” Greg stated bluntly, but then sighed. He’d better give this the best chance of succeeding he could. “Sherlock… go easy on him. He’s not going to instantly be comfortable with the idea of being romantic or intimate with you. He might even shy away for a bit now that he realises the things he’s been doing anyway are now done with a different intention. Give him time, be considerate, and bloody don’t just deduce him with your arrogant attitude. Above all… talk with him.”   
“Alright.” Sherlock said, nodding. He then stood and left as suddenly as he’d arrived. 

Greg leant back in his chair and allowed a grin to break out on his face. He was hopeful the two of them could come to some kind of arrangement. It was about bloody time. 

~

Greg returned home on time, and couldn’t deny he’d had a pang of worry stabbing his gut for hours over what he’d find. He knew Myc was still conscious enough to respond to the occasional texts, but that didn’t mean everything was fine. He walked through the entranceway, and called out for Mycroft.   
“Myc! I’m home!” He shouted, only the lighting in the entranceway curbing the panic of the memory when he’d done the same the night of ‘the prank’.   
“In here,” came the reply, from the kitchen. Greg breathed a deep sigh of relief, and then noted the smell of dinner wafting towards him. He followed it to the kitchen, to see Mycroft standing at the stove. He was wearing the relaxed pants Greg had insisted he by once, with a plain white shirt hidden underneath an apron, with the sleeves rolled up. He smiled at Greg upon seeing him, and Greg’s heart melted. He walked forward and embraced him tightly.   
“Hey, darling. How was your day?” Mycroft asked, glad that there wasn’t any food on the apron to soil his husband’s work clothes.   
“Better now I’m home,” Greg mumbled into Myc’s chest. “What are you cooking? It smells wonderful.”   
“Creamy garlic prawn pasta with salmon chunks.” Mycroft answered, smiling.   
“Sounds great, love.”   
“I admit I don’t have your flair for cooking, but I believe I have made a reasonable attempt.” Mycroft grinned, reaching over for the recipe. Gregory released his vice grip on him, but left his hands upon his middle, which he didn’t mind at all. He presented the recipe, and proudly added, “I amended the recipe to include the salmon.”  
“So you have. Good work dear.” Greg said, with not even a hint of condescension. He knew Mycroft had real trouble cooking anything that didn’t adhere strictly to a recipe. Greg liked to cook organically, often not following a recipe at all, and using his sense of smell and taste to guide him. It had initially made Mycroft uncomfortable to watch, but after a while, it had been reduced to just a ‘normal’ thing. Greg was impressed that Mycroft was trying to get out of his comfort zone. Greg leaned in and kissed him gently. “I’ll be back after changing, alright?”  
“Mhm,” Mycroft hummed, “It should be ready by then, if you’re amenable to eating now.”   
“Yeah, starved.” Greg commented with a childish grin, before heading up to their bedroom. 

Mycroft was seeming to have a good day, and Greg wanted to make sure he kept it that way. He knew that a ‘good day’ was a delicate thing: sometimes it wasn’t caused by anything, and could disappear at the smallest occurrence or passing thought. Mycroft needed to have some good days in the mix… hell, _he_ needed good days in the mix. While the start of his day wasn’t great, he was thoroughly enjoying the turn around. 

Greg returned to the kitchen to find Mycroft plating up. He walked behind him, and slid his hands around Myc’s waist, nuzzling his neck softly.   
“Gregory, this is delicate.” Mycroft commented, trying to spoon out the pasta without spilling the sauce.   
“You know I don’t mind a bit of creamy stuff spilled about.” Greg uttered huskily in Mycroft’s ear. He chuckled as Mycroft choked and spluttered.   
“Gregory!” Mycroft snapped, putting the pot he’d almost spilled down, and turned around. Gregory’s smile was broad, his eyes glittering; he wore a cheeky, yet hopeful, expression. Mycroft sighed and playfully rolled his eyes. He leaned in and kissed him gently, humming at the soft touch of lips. “Later. The food’s going cold.”   
“True,” Greg intoned, “I do prefer things _hot_.”  
Mycroft kissed Gregory once more, quickly this time, before turning back around and picking up the plates. He carried them over to the dinner table, where he’d set up a candle. He put the plates at their usual places for dinner (sitting opposite, instead of at right angles for tea or coffee). Gregory smiled happily as he sat, grabbing his cutlery. Mycroft watched, feeling warm in his chest, as his husband enjoyed the pasta he’d made. He ate slower, as usual, but he was more interested in eating his meal within the encouraging presence of Gregory.   
“So, what did you do today, Sunshine?” Greg asked with a grin.   
“Hardly anything. I sat on the terrace and read a book for a while, I tidied the living room, and decided to cook dinner.” Mycroft responded, sounding a little flat.  
“Sounds like you had a productive day.” Greg responded happily.   
“I assure you, nothing I did could be considered productive.”  
Greg stopped eating, stood, walked around behind Mycroft, and wrapped his arms firmly around him. “You listen to me, Mycroft Holmes, because you’ve obviously forgotten. Taking care of yourself like that _is_ productive.” Greg spoke, kissing Mycroft’s temple. “I’m very glad you took time to do things that weren’t stressful on you and occupied your time. That’s what you are supposed to be doing. I’m proud of you.”   
“You are telling me that a lot, lately.” Mycroft commented.   
“Call it making up for lost time, if you like,” Greg chuckled, and softly ran his hands up to the base of Mycroft’s neck. He gently worked his thumbs in circles at the base of the man’s skull, eliciting a deep moan. Greg smirked, and then continued to run his thumbs down the length of Mycroft’s neck.“You like that, Gorgeous?” Greg hummed in Mycroft’s ear.   
“Oh, very much so…” Mycroft breathed. He felt tingles running down his body as the muscles in his neck slowly relaxed. It had been some time since he’d gotten a massage from Gregory, and he’d almost forgotten how much he loved them. He sighed happily as Gregory’s strong hands moved out to his shoulders, and started digging into the muscles. “Yes, there…” Mycroft breathed.   
“If you’re good and finish off your meal, I’ll give you a good rub all over.” Greg whispered. He could feel Mycroft shudder beneath his hands.   
“Gregory… I don’t know if I’ll be quite up to…”  
“Shhh, love. I’m not expecting anything. I just want to make you feel good, ok? No expectations, just feelings. If that means just laying together and giving you a foot rub, great. If you want me to douse your naked body in oil and work out the tension from each and every muscle… I will. If it goes further to some sensual slippery sex, I’m game. Seriously, Myc… just let me show you I love you, without expectations.” Greg said softly, using his thumbs to work out some knots in his husband’s shoulder blades.   
“Yes.” Mycroft uttered, finding himself incapable of saying anything that would stop the wonderful sensation of Gregory’s strong hands working into his shoulders.   
“Good.” Greg said, retracted his hands, and pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s head. He didn’t miss the sigh of disappointment that escaped Mycroft’s lips as he stopped massaging. Greg returned to his seat at the table and smiled lovingly into Mycroft’s glittering blue orbs. “You have something to do, then, if you want me to continue.” Greg mused, using his fork to point to Mycroft’s full plate of pasta.   
Mycroft suddenly felt a lot more hungry, and ate with a lot more gusto than before. He didn’t care if he was being manipulated into eating food… he felt warm inside thinking that his husband cared for him enough to both give him a lovely body rub _and_ ensure he was eating properly. 

Mycroft lay face down on the bed, naked, with his face in a pillow. It was a little difficult to breathe, but he didn’t care one bit. The feeling of Gregory’s hands sliding up and down his back was exquisite.  
“Ohhhh, Gregory, yes… there.” Mycroft moaned as Gregory started rubbing a knot in his lower back.   
“Hehe, you sound so erotic when I do this.” Greg commented, happily letting his palms slide over the muscles on his husband’s freckle-dusted back. Mycroft moaned into the pillow in response, and Greg laughed. He brushed his fingers up to the base of Mycroft’s neck, and then ran them smoothly down to grasp at Myc’s firm buttocks. “Mmm, I’m rather enjoying this myself.” Greg hummed, squeezing the muscles in his hands. He oiled his hands up again, and smeared them down the cascade that was his husband’s legs.   
“Oh… hehe, tickles a little…” Mycroft said, moving his face to the side and suppressing a giggle.   
“Fuck you’re gorgeous.” Greg said, loving the feel of his hands sliding down the everlastingly long leg.   
“And I am a lucky man to have you.” Mycroft said affectionately, looking at Gregory sitting beside him. He was rewarded with a devoted and loving smile that made Mycroft’s heart melt.   
Greg took Myc’s right foot in his hands and began kneading away at the underside, delighting in the soft moans Mycroft couldn’t hold back. “I should have clarified: I _love_ it when you sound so erotic when I do this. Please don’t stop on my account.” Greg teased.   
“Cheeky devil.” Mycroft uttered and giggled. He relaxed and let himself make whatever noises that happened to escape his mouth at Gregory’s ministrations. It was heavenly; he worked into each foot and up the calf muscle, and then all the way back up to his neck again. Mycroft was a little hesitant when Gregory spread more oil over his hands, but was rewarded with a new rush of endorphins as those magnificent hands began to work their way down his right arm, pressing into the muscles.   
“I see you particularly like that… I don’t know why I’ve neglected it so much.” Greg said, noting his husband’s increased moans of delight. It made sense, given the kind of work Mycroft mostly did: desk and paperwork. Greg had generally focused on Myc’s feet and shoulders, but he was adding ‘arms’ to his list of most-favoured places to rub. He worked his way down to his husband’s long, soft fingers. He rubbed each one, kneaded into the palm, between the digits… and he could see Mycroft’s face of euphoria as he did so. Greg felt pleased with himself, like he was finally able to directly do something to help. He wanted to just lean in and kiss that face.   
“I love you.” Mycroft uttered as Gregory finished.   
“I love you too, more than words.” Greg answered, and got up to clean his hands of oil. “Do you want a shower?” he called out from the ensuite.   
“I have just showered, Gregory. I’m very happy remaining here.” Mycroft quietly replied.   
“Yeah, but now you’re all oily.” Greg stated, returning into the bedroom.   
“Mhm.”  
“You want to sleep all oily?”   
“Do you not want to cuddle someone all oily?” Mycroft asked, his eyebrow raised.   
“If I were naked I wouldn’t mind so much…” Greg mused.   
“And why would you not be naked?” Mycroft answered with a gleam in his eye.   
“Myc, seriously… if you’re not up to doing anything… that’s fine. I know I joked about at dinner, but…”  
“I want to. I have read that depression does dampen sex drive, and that one should continue engaging in the activity anyway… but I honestly would like to.” Mycroft explained, and rolled onto his side, exposing himself plainly for his husband to see.   
“Well, I see you are definitely interested…” Greg said, eyeing the bulging cock presented before him. He swallowed uncomfortably, his own hard erection twitching in his pants.   
“As are you.” Mycroft responded, eyeing his husband’s crotch. “So why don’t you come here and rectify the situation?”  
“I might…” Greg mused playfully, eliciting a grin from Mycroft.   
“Do I need to make myself more enticing?”  
“Fuck, how would you even manage to do that, gorgeous? You’re already hard, naked, and covered in oil.”   
In response, Mycroft peeled himself up off the sheets, and slowly moved himself to elongate his body across the bedspread, his face and chest pressed against the soft material, and his bum in the air on his knees facing Greg. Greg found himself making a groan upon seeing his husband present himself in such a manner, a deep, animalistic groan.   
“I hear I have been successful.” Mycroft muttered gleefully from the bed.   
“Fuck, flirting’s over. Myc, I … do you want me to do this?”  
“Gregory…” Mycroft began incredulously, but was cut off.   
“I’m serious, I have to know.” Greg stated sternly.   
Mycroft turned his head around to eye Gregory directly. “Gregory, please fuck me.” 

It was the permission he needed to shed himself of his pants, and climb up onto the bed behind Mycroft. He slid his hands up over Mycroft’s buttocks, still slick with oil, and hummed appreciatively at the feel of the muscle beneath his hands. He let his body press against Mycroft’s hot skin, sliding his chest over the oiled surface. He pressed kisses along Mycroft’s spine, trailing down to the tip of his tailbone.   
“Gregory…” Mycroft breathed, his voice laden with need.   
“What do you want, gorgeous?” Greg asked softly.   
“T-touch me.”   
Greg leant back and ran his hand down from where he’d stopped kissing, over Myc’s entrance, down past his perineum, cupped his balls, and moved all the way to the tip of his length.   
“Ohhhh…. yes.” Mycroft groaned, his hips jerking involuntarily. He could feel Gregory’s breath hot on his skin, the tantalising sensation of Gregory’s hand sliding over him whilst the man’s wrist slid against his testicles.   
Greg suddenly felt the urge to try something new. He was literally staring it in the face, and when the idea flashed across his mind, he realised he really wanted to try. _Mycroft had just showered, and so was clean_ , Greg thought, as he brought his nose close to Mycroft’s entrance. Deciding not to give his plan away so quickly, Greg continued to stroke Myc softly with his hand, and brought his nose up and kissed Mycroft’s scrotum. He received a satisfied hum, and then took a testicle in his mouth.   
“ _God_ , Gregory…” Mycroft moaned. He loved the sensation, provided his husband remained gentle. They’d discovered that too much pressure was really unwelcome. Gregory teased his balls by dragging each into his mouth and lolling them about with his tongue. Mycroft was incapable of doing anything but groan loudly. His eyes then went wide as Gregory used his tongue to slide up along his perineum, and move back further. In a split second he realised what was about to happen, and he felt his cock jerk excitedly. He’d thought about what this would be like, but never had the courage to ask… it just felt so _dirty_ , so _wrong_ to put a tongue there… and yet he had found the thought incredibly hot all the same. He desperately wanted to know what it felt like even if it had repulsed him to think of reciprocating.   
“Fuck!” Mycroft exclaimed, loudly, as Greg slid his tongue over Myc’s entrance.   
“You like that, love?” Greg hummed, his face still buried in Mycroft’s cheeks.   
The air wafted over the wet entrance, causing tingling sensations to flow over his body. He hummed a response, and eagerly awaited another lick.   
Greg smiled and smeared his tongue over the puckered muscle again, this time using the tip of his tongue to part the entrance slightly.   
“Oh fuck, Greg…” Mycroft exclaimed, burying his face in the sheets.   
“Jesus, you _really_ like this, don’t you gorgeous?” Greg mused, pleased he’d had the inkling to try. He wondered why he hadn’t tried it before. Greg continued to lap at Mycroft’s entrance, receiving groans and moans aplenty in response. Every bitten noise pulsed through Greg’s body, as if directly saying to him: ‘yes, you are doing a good job at making Mycroft feel good…well done’. It made him grin happily, proud, whilst he explored the ring of muscle with his tongue.   
Mycroft didn’t care that Gregory released his cock in order to spread his buttocks better. The pleasure that his husband’s tongue gave was overwhelming enough. It was new, exciting, and incredibly hot. He rocked gently backwards, revelling in the feel of the soft moist tongue penetrating him.   
“Greg…” Mycroft moaned breathily, in such a low tone that it sent shivers down Greg’s spine. God, how he loved that sound. He moved his hand down to cup Myc’s balls, and then start stroking him. Mycroft released a strangled gasp, involuntarily bucking his hips into Greg’s hand.   
“Greg… stop…” Mycroft panted, feeling the tension all through his body on the verge of explosive release. Gregory stopped immediately.   
“Myc? You ok?”  
“Yeah… gonna… come…” Mycroft breathed.   
“Sweetheart,” Greg chuckled, “That’s kinda the point.”   
“What about you, though?” Myc asked, turning to look directly at Greg.   
“I’m having fun… I want this to be just enjoyable, not intense fucking. Let me make you come, love.”  
Mycroft nodded, seeing the joy in those chocolate eyes, and returned to his relaxed position with his face in the sheets. He jumped when Greg’s tongue returned to his entrance, and electricity surged through his veins when the man’s strong hand grasped around his prick and stroked him. He let out a strangled cry into the bedding, biting down on the cotton.   
“Don’t hold it in, dearest… you know how much I love hearing your noises.” Greg teased, purposefully letting his breath tantalise the wet hole. Greg was a rather loud lover, and noises really got him going. He had to spend some time coaxing Mycroft into not muffling himself, but the reward was immense. Greg groaned appreciatively listening to the clipped grunting Myc began making between breaths.   
The tension increased, and Mycroft found his body was shaking. His skin was now slick with both oil and sweat, but he didn’t care in the slightest. All he could think of was the hand pumping his cock and the tongue in his arse. His mind was blissfully free of anything else. He barely registered his voice increasing in pitch, which caused his husband to stroke him faster.  
“Argh fuck! _Fuck…_!” Mycroft screamed, releasing himself into his husband’s hand. He panted, reeling, feeling nothing but a floating sense of whiteness. His muscles spasmed while his cock pulsed out as much come as possible, Gregory continuing to stroke him slowly as he came back down to earth. He flopped down against the bed, not caring about any mess, as his muscles were just unable to hold him any longer. He caught his breath while feeling the blissful exhaustion in his tender balls, still throbbing gently.   
“Fuck, Myc…” Greg groaned, now stroking himself, using his husband’s come as lube. The utterly exquisite noises Mycroft had made in his orgasm had brought Greg right up to the edge. After only a few rough movements, Greg himself was coming hard. He spilled out over himself, and onto Mycroft’s leg. His husband didn’t seem to register it, still laying on the bed catching his breath with one of the most peaceful faces Greg had seen on him. Greg groaned and let himself fall down onto the bed beside Mycroft, panting and grinning at him like an idiot.   
“You…?”  
“Yeah.” Greg breathed.   
“That was…”  
“Yeah.”   
Mycroft beamed and lazily kissed Gregory, briefly so that he could continue to catch his breath. “You are perfect.” Mycroft uttered lovingly.   
“You are wonderful; and messy. You’re definitely going to need another shower now.” Greg laughed, and kissed Mycroft gently. He ran his hand up the man’s side, humming at the feel of the soft tender skin. “I’ll join you.”   
“Oh, well, in that case…” Mycroft playfully mused, nuzzling Greg’s neck with his nose. 


	13. The First Visit

Mycroft was sweating. He was trying hard to focus on the environment around him, however it wasn’t helping as much as he was hoping it to. He’d moved from the study into the bedroom, where he’d let himself curl up, phone still grasped firmly in his hand. His muscles shook. He kept trying to focus on breathing, on the feel of the sheets… it was barely enough. Sherlock was visiting Sherrinford.   
He didn’t want to care anymore. He didn’t want it to be his problem anymore. Sherrinford, and Eurus, were taken out of his hands. His family didn’t want him to have anything to do with it. So why, _why_ , was it still haunting him this much? He’d frozen when he’d seen the message sent to him. It was like the world had narrowed, and started spinning. He couldn’t breathe, and his throat closed up.   
“I don’t want it to hurt anymore…” Mycroft moaned to himself, pressing his head into both wrists. He didn’t want to be a mess anymore… but he knew that just hating it, and wanting to give up fighting, wasn’t going to improve the situation. He couldn’t just happily accept that he needed help, though. He wanted to be able to cope on his own. He didn’t want to continue to burden Gregory. Mycroft swallowed as he stared at the screen. Thinking of Gregory helped, but also caused bile to rise in his throat. He wanted his husband here, to hold him, to tell him it’d be ok… but he didn’t want to be a bother, a burden, an interruption to the man’s life and career. He also couldn’t bear to connect the thoughts of Sherrinford and Gregory together; doing so still caused a nauseating reaction.   
The efforts to keep himself present, to keep flashbacks away, were also serving to make his guilt worse. His general mood was plummeting further the longer he tried to fight against his own mind— he was at the point of just crying for Gregory. He promised himself that he’d always fight himself for his husband, but he just couldn’t do it alone. He felt so damned _guilty_ for wanting to interrupt Gregory’s life for just emotional problems.   
Mycroft could feel the darker thoughts creep into his mind. Thoughts that told him he was a failure, that everyone was better off without him, that he didn’t have to keep fighting. He let out the breath he was holding and hit ‘dial’. 

Greg found that he still couldn’t concentrate. He’d been doing paperwork for the previous three days he had been back at work, wherein didn’t matter if his attention wavered at time to time. He was at a crime scene, however, now — and it _did_ matter if his focus was hazy at best. There was a body, a fairly slashed up one, that Greg was trying hard not to look at. It was a murder, not a suicide; Greg knew he’d not be able to cope if it had been a suicide. The issue was still too traumatic for him. Sally had been understanding thus far, and Greg was thankful that she was helping him beyond her job at the scene.   
“You doing alright?” She asked, looking up from the clipboard.   
“No, not really. I just… it’s all…” Greg tried to say, running his fingers through his hair.   
“Boss, I know you’ve been grinding away at the desk since Monday, but maybe coming out wasn’t such a great idea.”  
“I needed to get out, Donovan. I was going stir-crazy. Besides, the Chief Super wouldn’t take kindly tome declining a murder inquiry.” Greg grumbled.   
“Greg,” Sally said in a hushed tone, “I really think you shouldn’t be here.”   
“You saying I’m incompetent now?” Greg snapped. He was aware she was just concerned for him, but didn’t like the insinuation.   
“Lord, no,” Sally said, shocked, “I just think you need to take time off. Yeah, you’ve had a bit lately, but you’re not doing well like this and you’re going to break down yourself. It’d be better for you to try sort out the stuff at home and then come back, instead of trying to wear yourself down in both places and not getting far in either.” 

Greg sighed and rubbed his face. He couldn’t deny the truth to Sally’s words. He’d like to stay with Mycroft, and he was really feeling the strain of it all… but the world just didn’t work that way. He couldn’t just take off time because he needed it, not if the administration would say he had no time left to take. He probably had a few days accumulated, he’d not really checked… but his Chief Super wasn’t an ally, and Greg was honestly afraid to put a proposal for more time off before him. “Sal, I don’t know if I _can_ right now… oh, hold on,” Greg said, his phone ringing mid way. He pulled it out of his pocket, and his stomach dropped. It was Mycroft.   
“Myc? I’m here.” Greg said, aware that he’d gone pale.   
“Gregory? I’m… I’m not interrupting anything important, am I?” Mycroft asked, his voice small and timid.   
“No, love. I can talk. What is it, are you ok?”  
“N-no, I’m… I’m not ok.” Mycroft admitted, and Greg could hear the shame in his voice.   
“Thank you for telling me, dearest. Now tell me what’s going on, yeah?” Greg asked, trying to keep his voice calm. He remained rooted to the spot.   
“Sherlock is, he… he’s visiting Sherrinford. Greg I am trying to stop the images, the feelings… but the more I do, I … I am not able to keep out the other dark thoughts.”   
“Shit, right… I hadn’t realised he’d go so soon. It’s perfectly fine for you to feel anxious about it, love,” Greg said, immediately making his way to the car. “Just try and keep breathing. I’m on my way, ok?”  
“Greg…” Mycroft started to protest, but he couldn’t continue. He really did want his husband to come for him.   
“Where are you?” Greg asked, nodding to Sally as she uttered she’d take care of it.   
“In the bedroom…”  
“Good. Stay there. See if you can find my pillow.”  
“Your… pillow? It’s where it always is.” Mycroft said, sounding a little confused.   
“No not my _sleeping_ pillow, love, my cuddle-pillow. The round fluffy one.” Greg said, not caring he just said the words ‘fluffy cuddle pillow’ at a grisly murder scene.   
“Oh, right… yes, I can get that.” Mycroft answered, and got up to fetch it. The softness of the pile was nice to feel, and he ran his fingers through it. He pulled it in close and held it against his chest. He took a deep breath, and was comforted by the gentle smell of Gregory still imbued in the pillow.   
“I’ll be there soon, ok Myc?” Greg said as he got into the car and put the phone on hands-free.   
“I’m sorry for calling you—”  
“Don’t.” Greg interrupted forcefully. He didn’t want Mycroft to apologise for doing as he was told.   
“But I’m taking you away from work.”  
“So? You come first.”  
“I shouldn’t get care like this, Gregory… it’s my fault it all happened.”  
“We talked about this. You aren’t responsible for what happened.”   
“I am, though… I was the one that allowed Moriarty to visit,” Mycroft said, unable to keep the tears away.   
“You made a mistake, but that doesn’t mean you’re responsible for the result. People make mistakes, and you were only trying to do the best you could for everyone.”  
“It almost cost me everything.” Mycroft whispered. He could hear the sounds of the car, and tried to follow what was happing on the other end of the line while he stroked the fluff of the pillow. He felt utterly ashamed that he was brought to this: a snivelling mess that had to call his husband from work to take care of him. Those feelings were just as deadly to him as the memories of Sherlock and the gun. He’d been terrified, but resigned, to die. It was his fault; it was his punishment. Sherlock turning the gun on himself showed how much Mycroft had really meant to him, and while in hindsight he felt warmed by the realisation, the terror of having to witness his brother’s suicide had coursed through him like poison. It hadn’t left him, either. It was still poisoning him. 

“Myc? You still there?” Greg asked, unsettled by how quiet Mycroft had become.  
“Thinking.” Mycroft responded breathily.   
“About what?”  
“Sherrinford. Sherlock caring enough for me to elect to die himself than kill me. Shame over my current state. The terror of how close I’d come to seeing him die.”   
“Stop. Don’t think about it, Myc. You need to distract yourself from them until I’m there. You can talk to me about it once I can hold you, but until then, just try and focus on keeping your mind clear.” Greg said, distracted by the traffic on the road. “I know you want to just ‘be better’, but you have to accept that this is part of the healing process.”   
Mycroft didn’t know what to say in response. He just hummed, not really agreeing but at least acknowledging he’d heard. He listened to Gregory talk to him while he drove home; his voice was comforting to listen to. He hung up once he got into the garage, and so Mycroft remained silent to listen for him approaching the bedroom. He heard footsteps, and then felt the mattress dip as Gregory joined him. Mycroft didn’t move from the curl on the bed, his back to the door.   
“Hey, Sunshine. It’s alright.” Greg cooed as he snuggled up and held Mycroft close.   
“I’m still sorry.” Mycroft uttered.   
“I know. It’s ok, though. I really didn’t want to be there, anyway.”  
“What was it? Paperwork?”  
“No, a crime scene. A rather brutal murder, actually. I wasn’t really up for looking at that just yet. So you can think of it as you helping me as well.”  
“You’re kind.” Mycroft commented. It was true; throughout this entire ordeal, Gregory had been immensely, unequivocally, _kind_. Mycroft didn’t feel like he deserved such kindness. He felt like he was a monster, and horrible person for accepting the man’s unrelenting care in spite of him causing all the pain and suffering. Gregory would often tell him it wasn’t his fault, but Mycroft wasn’t able to believe it. The facts were there, and his mother’s words still rung in his head: _he should have done better._   
Mycroft started to cry again, and Greg just gently shushed him and whispered soft words to him. It was hard to see the British Government so broken down. Greg closed his eyes and took a deep breath while he stroked along his husband’s back.   
_It’s still early days. He has to get it all out before starting to get better. It’ll be ok._

~

Greg sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over. Mycroft was fast asleep courtesy of the sleeping pills, but Greg couldn’t rest. He just needed some kind of conversation with a friend. His phone was in his hands, ready to call, but he still felt in need of just taking a few moments to steady himself. He didn’t like to admit how unsettled he felt seeing Mycroft like that; crying and shaking in a ball in his arms. He pressed the call button.   
“Hey, Greg, you alright?”  
“Hey, John. Sorry, I know it’s late… I hope I haven’t woken you?”  
“It’s only a quarter to ten, mate. I’m not in bed by now. What’s up?”  
“Good… that’s good. I - I just wanted to chat a bit. Rough day. It’s left me… yeah.” Greg sighed, running his hand through his hair.   
“Mycroft?”  
“He’s asleep now, but you’re right. It wasn’t a good day.”   
“Yeah, I was almost gonna call you, actually. Sherlock going to see Eurus was undoubtedly going to make things difficult at least,” John said, and Greg could hear the grimace on his face. He wasn’t all that thrilled with the idea either, it seemed.   
“How are things with you and Sherlock, then?”  
“Well,” John emphasised with a deep breath, “You’re bloody right, I love him.”   
“Good.”  
“It’s still not… like, I don’t want to have sex with him. But I do want to just live with him. Have him as that other person in my life. Raise Rosie with him. Might even want to cuddle with him, I don’t know yet. It’s all a bit… new.”  
“Just take it slow, mate. Whatever pace you’re comfortable with. He wants you to be happy no matter what that means for him; you know that. Just live as you want.”  
“Mhm. Yeah. It’s strange, when I think about it.”  
“How so?”  
“Just… if I think of sharing my life like this with a man, it makes me uncomfortable deep inside like it’s wrong. If I think of doing it with Sherlock… it feels safe, like that’s how it’s supposed to be. Putting the ideas together leaves me still very confused.”   
“Just give it time,” Greg said gently, looking over to Mycroft, “Things take time, but they’ll be alright.”   
“Yeah.” John hummed in agreement. They slipped into a pensive silence.   
“Listen, is Sherlock there? I would like to talk to him about something, if that’s alright?”  
“Sure, hang on.” John said brightly, and then called out for Sherlock. “He’ll be right over. You know he’s totally stopped pretending he doesn’t know your name, now.”   
“Yeah. That’s good,” Greg said, closing his eyes and smiling. 

“Greg?” Sherlock’s deep voice spoke through the phone.   
“Hey, Sherlock. I wanted to see how you were.”  
“I’m fine. The visit was adequate.”  
“So, you’re coping alright with the memories and stuff being there?”  
“Yes. It was a little confronting to see the place again, but I felt there was no danger. I have just put those events behind me, as the past, and am doing what I can in the present.”  
“I wish Mycroft could do that,” Greg mused sadly.  
“How is he?”  
“Not so good, Sherlock. News of your visit was hard on him.”  
“As I suspected, then. But, as you said, it’s not his decision any—”  
“I’m not scolding you for going, Sherlock. You can take charge of the family situation now without him, that’s not in question.”  
“Oh. Good. I want to; take charge I mean. Mycroft did it alone for so long… I feel like it’s my turn to step up and be the adult now. He’s not in a position to do so and I’m happy to have the roles reversed for a change.”  
“I’m proud of you, Sherlock,” Greg said softly. He’d always felt like a father-figure to Sherlock, despite being the man’s close friend and then brother-in-law. Although, Mycroft had been the parent to Sherlock growing up and until very recently; so it wasn’t that strange for Greg to feel that way, really. Sherlock didn’t respond, and so Greg continued. “I actually wanted to ask you something. Did Mycroft have any hobbies as a child?”  
“Why do you ask?”  
“I want to try and have something calming or enjoyable for him to do during the day. Sitting around without a lot to do is making him restless and giving his mind a chance to go wandering into places it shouldn’t. He’s not quite at the stage of being able to motivate himself to find distractions, and so I want to help.”  
“Hmm… usually, Mycroft would spend all of his time reading and studying. He didn’t really enjoy playing the piano, despite practising as told to. He… he mostly just watched me,” Sherlock said, shame in his voice.   
“Are you sure there’s nothing?” Greg asked, dejected. He really wanted to try and have a list of things for Mycroft to do.   
“Well… he did like to draw. I can’t remember it much but he rather liked art, I think. Before Eurus became a threat. I can’t remember if he was any good or what kind he did.”   
“Being good isn’t the point of the activity.”   
“If you want him to try it again, you’ll have to emphasise that quite strongly.” Sherlock reminded him. Greg nodded, despite being on the phone.   
“Yeah. I will, don’t worry. Thanks, mate. I’ll try and gather up some art things tomorrow. Have a good night, yeah?”  
“And you,” Sherlock said quietly, and hung up. 

Greg dropped his phone on the bedside table, a little carelessly, and rolled his shoulders. He still had work in the morning. He decided he’d just ask Anthea to find up some supplies for him. Greg knew she was busy working in Mycroft’s stead, but figured she’d be amenable to helping.


	14. Art

Mycroft woke when it was still dark. It wasn’t unexpected as he’d taken the sleeping pill early the previous evening. His eyes drifted over to where Gregory lay beside him, sprawled out. Mycroft smiled and shuffled closer. He snuggled up to the man’s side, exhaling happily as he slid his arm around Gregory’s middle.   
“Mmm,” Gregory hummed, “the ferns can wait.”   
Mycroft stifled a chuckle, and kissed his husband’s temple. Gregory shuffled in his arms, to lay on his side. Mycroft moved to cuddle him closely, his body pressed against the length of Gregory’s.  
“Bee balls,” Gregory muttered with a smile as he got comfortable in Mycroft’s arms. Mycroft snickered. 

After a few moments, Gregory’s breathing evened out again and he began to snore softly once again. Mycroft could remember being a little annoyed with the noises at first, but had quickly come to find them reassuring reminders of Gregory’s presence. Now, he found he wasn’t able to sleep well without hearing those soft sounds that comforted him. Gregory was here, safe, and close to him. Mycroft found himself slipping back into a doze. 

He was awoken again a few hours later by Gregory’s alarm. He heard a groan, and the alarm was turned off.   
“Greg’ry,” Mycroft muttered. He’d had a rather peaceful sleep, actually. He wanted Gregory to stay and cuddle.   
“Morning Myc. You sleep alright?” Greg uttered quietly.   
“Mmm,” Mycroft hummed, “quite well, actually.”   
“Glad to hear it. You don’t have to get up; I’ll just get ready and leave, yeah?”  
“Do you have to get up?”  
“Yes, Myc… I have work to do,” Greg sighed. He didn’t really want to go.   
“Or,” Mycroft mused sleepily, “you could stay here and do me instead.”   
“As tempting as that is, I don’t think I’ll get paid for that,” Greg chuckled, and shuffled around to lay face to face with Mycroft. He nuzzled his neck softly, and then kissed him gently.   
“Would you want to be paid for that, though?” Mycroft asked, and Gregory laughed at him.  
“No, you’re right,” Greg answered. He pecked a kiss on Mycroft’s nose. “So I do have to get up.” 

Mycroft watched as Gregory prepared for his shower, and the got ready for the day whilst Gregory cleaned himself. Not that there was a whole lot for him to get ready for. He elected for some grey trousers, a white shirt, and his navy waistcoat. He was picking out a tie when he felt hands slide around his waist.   
“Mmm, so sexy,” Greg mumbled into Mycroft’s neck. “I think you should forget the tie, today.”  
“Why?”  
“Let yourself breathe a bit. Keep your collar open. You don’t have to be fancy all the time. Besides, I rather like your shirt being open for me to kiss more skin.”   
“Whilst I enjoy that, you will not be here for the day, rendering your point moot,” Mycroft stated. Gregory sighed and rested his head on Mycroft’s back, still holding him close, naked.   
“I’m sorry about that, love.”  
“No, don’t be. It’s how things are. You need to attend to your work.”   
“Sally has told me I should take time off.”  
“I wouldn’t want you to get into further trouble with your boss on my account,” Mycroft said, his body going stiff.   
“No, love, don’t be upset. It’s more for my wellbeing than anything. My mind’s not all there, and I’m just getting stressed.” Greg sighed.   
“I have noticed,” Mycroft said through gritted teeth. He didn’t like being the cause of more stress for Gregory.   
“I wanted to talk to you about it before I said anything to management,” Greg said, and twisted Mycroft around to face him. “What do you want?”   
“I… you should—”  
“No, not what you should want, or what I should be doing, what do _you_ _want_?”  
“I want you to be happy.” Mycroft answered quietly. His voice was sad and defeated.   
“Hey, come on love,” Greg said with a smile, pulling Mycroft’s chin upwards to meet his eyes again. “It’s fine if you want me to be here with you. I’d rather that, too, you know. I just don’t want to do it if it’s going to make you feel uncomfortable, like you’re being ‘cared for like an invalid’ or whatever your mind comes up with.”   
“I admit there is an overtone of that lingering, yes,” Mycroft mumbled, turning his face away again.  
“Well, how about this: I just have today and then there’s the weekend. We’ll see how we both manage next week. If you aren’t going alright, or I’m still too distracted, I’ll talk to my team. I might be able to organise doing some desk work from home or something,” Greg said hopefully, cupping Mycroft’s cheek. He leant in and kissed him.   
“That is acceptable,” Mycroft stated. He tried to smile in return, but Gregory just frowned at him.   
“What is it?”  
“Hm?”  
“Come on, Myc, I know you well enough by now to tell when there’s something bothering you.”  
“I - I just don’t know what to do when you leave for work.”   
“I’m sure something will come up that grabs your attention.”  
Greg smiled and kissed Mycroft, before turning to dress himself. Mycroft didn’t respond. He just stood there and watched Greg get changed, the atmosphere a little sullen. Greg reached out and took his hand once he was done putting on his work attire, and pulled him out to get some breakfast. 

~

Mycroft tried doing some reading, but it wasn’t grabbing his attention like he’d hoped. Instead, he elected to take a walk outside in the garden. It was a sunny day; the greens of the plants were vibrant, bees were hopping between small flowers, and the gentle trickle of water from the fountain was both soothing to listen to and watch as it glistened in the light of the sun. Mycroft took a deep breath and closed his eyes whilst he stood there on the path. He could smell the damp soil, the crispness of the fresh air. The sun prickled at his skin; it was warm, but slightly uncomfortable on his naked flesh. He didn’t often spend time outside in the sunlight, least of all in nothing but a white tie-less shirt open at the collar with the sleeves drawn. He opened his eyes and continued to walk to the bench nestled under a tree. He much preferred the dappled light to the full blast of the sun’s rays. 

He tapped on the handrail of the bench, feeling like he should be doing something. His hands felt strange being unoccupied; he ended up threading his fingers and resting them on his lap. There were at least plenty of distractions to focus on to practice mindfulness, out in the garden. Mycroft enjoyed the constant little noises of water as it bubbled down over the little stone waterfall and into the pond below. It was strange how he enjoyed listening to nature despite having a general dislike for the outdoors. Rain also was a sound he enjoyed; he loved to just listen to the patter of rain around him whilst he stood at the window, pensively watching the weather, safe inside. 

The birds chirped above him, and he eyed them cautiously. They never got too close, and were generally fine  —  small sparrows and wrens, nothing more. The calm he felt inside was, unfortunately, short lived. A parrot descended down upon a branch of the tree above him, and screeched loudly. Mycroft tensed and stared at it, contemplating his next move. The beast eyed him back, and Mycroft knew it was planning its attack. He took a few measured breaths, making no sudden moves, and slowly leant away from the branch. Pigeons he could deal with. Pigeons were idiotic and placid, and kept away from his building thanks to the spikes. Parrots, on the other hand… parrots were nasty.He was careful to ensure that nothing in his garden could be seen as ‘food’ for the larger monsters; any bird generally larger than his fist was a threat. His heart pounded as he stared at the hell-beast. He gathered his strength and made his move. He quickly got up from the bench and shuffled back inside, closing the glass doors forcefully and flicking the latch to lock it. 

Mycroft took a few steadying breaths now that he was safe. It was a fear he’d had since a child after a terrible day at he zoo. He was careful to not let Sherlock know, given how his younger sibling had handled the ‘fear of clowns’ situation. It was easy to rationalise his fear as a simple dislike for larger birds’ destructive behaviours and excrement. In truth, they caused a paralysing fear still to this day. He’d been only six when he’d been taken to the zoo. His parents had left him to wander the aviary on his own, and he’d encountered a large cage with some impressively sized parrots in them. He’d gone up close to see them, but the birds instantly disliked his presence. One of them puffed up, hunched its shoulders, and crept at him with its wings hovering above him. It had screeched as it made to bite him, and Mycroft had been scared ever since. The sheer predatory aggression was not something his parents had seen; rather, instead, they had mocked him for being afraid of the ‘pretty birds’. Every time he saw a parrot he was reminded of that day. It might not have become a so-called ‘irrational fear’ had he not then been taken to the swamp birds, wherein he was stalked by a large African shoebill. That bird was terrifying to anyone, really, and had towered over little Mycroft at the time. He shook his head to rid himself of the memories that gave him chills. 

“Sir?”   
Mycroft snapped up into his stiff posture and whirled around to see Anthea standing in the room.   
“Anthea? What is it?” Mycroft asked, a little more defensively than he should have.   
“I have brought a package that Gregory asked me to get. It is being delivered into the kitchen.”   
“Oh. Thank you. I shall inspect it soon. How are you handling the state of affairs?”   
“Fine, sir. The vultures continue to circle, however I am effectively swatting them away. There has been nothing of dire consequence lately, don’t worry. Lady Smallwood had been extremely helpful and has wished you a speedy recovery.”  
“Oh Lord…” Mycroft groaned.   
“Sir, they do not think less of you. I wish to make that perfectly clear. Whilst they do not know the extent of — affairs, they are not questioning your abilities. If anything, your colleagues are respecting the decision for you to remain away from work more than they would a decision for you to attempt to work in spite of the situation.” Anthea explained, aware that her boss was very particular about how he was perceived in the world.   
“Good… good. I would not jeopardise circumstances because of my not being at peak performance.”   
Anthea nodded at him. Anything to keep him happy to stay away and heal. “I must now go, there is a conference with China in an hour that I must prepare for. Enjoy your delivery.”  
Before Mycroft could enquire further regarding the meeting, Anthea left. Mycroft sighed and rolled his shoulders. He would not be made aware of it no matter how hard he pressed, such was Anthea’s way, and so contented himself to discovering what Gregory had sent him. 

The first thing Mycroft noticed that it was not one package, but several. The second thing he noticed was the large easel sitting in the corner behind the table. He then deduced that the four boxes on the table were filled with art supplies. He opened the first box, and sure enough, it had a set of oil paints, a palette, a wooden box that appeared to house brushes, some medium, and three palette knives. The second box contained a large half-pan set of watercolours, another container of brushes, a hardbound watercolour paper book, and various tools to aid watercolour painting such as masking fluid, sponges, and blotting paper. It appeared that Gregory had gone to an art store, and asked for everything to do art with… and the store provided. The third box contained a set of pastels, a tin of graphite pencils, some charcoal, a tin of coloured pencils, erasers, smudging sticks, books of various papers, and a sharpener. The final box was flatter, and contained a canvas pad and several different sized canvases. Mycroft was impressed with the quality of all of the items; he’d not expected Gregory to understand much about art supplies. But, then again, he probably had just asked Anthea to get his husband ‘art stuff’ and Anthea was the one that made the selections. Mycroft smiled. It was an impressive array for him to choose from. He would not touch the pastelsor charcoal with a ten-foot pole, but the rest were lovely. Mycroft looked at the easel, and then noticed a note affixed to the top. 

_Mycroft,_

_I hope you enjoy your new supplies! I didn’t know what you liked, and so got a bit of everything. I’m sure you could go out and get extra things that you personally like, if something is missing or not suitable._

_I will be home soon and I love you. I hope it’s grabbed your attention enough to have a play with it all while I’m at work._

_Greg_

Mycroft couldn’t stop himself from grinning like a child. Gregory had undoubtedly spoken to Sherlock about what kind of hobbies he’d enjoyed in his youth, and Sherlock had only been able to remember ‘art’. Mycroft had really enjoyed both drawing and painting, and had continued drawing long after Sherlock had believed he’d stopped. He never really lost his appreciation for art; however, he’d never found the time to start it up again. Nor had he had the motivation for it, really. He liked realism, as one could guess. His attempts to do so as a child were imperfect, but still reasonable for his age. Mycroft was left feeling a little intimidated at the prospect of starting it up again. He was much, much older now… imperfections would not be tolerated. He’d not had any practice. He wasn’t sure he was up to the challenge.  
Mycroft closed his eyes forcefully, and then frowned. He looked over to the pile of supplies cascading across the dining table, and felt tense. Gregory had done something wonderful for him, and he felt guilty for feeling bad about it. He walked over and put the note down on the table, hoping to just leave the room and think for a while. He noticed, however, that there was a message on the back of the paper as well. 

_Also, I know you… you’re going to think you have to be a master artist right away. That’s not the point of it, love. This is to occupy your time and focus your mind. The end result doesn’t matter. It can look like a mess of scribbles. The point is that you did it._

He instantly felt calmer. Gregory did know him so well. He let his fingers brush over the hand written text, as if thanking them for speaking. Mycroft still felt like leaving the room and sitting in the lounge for a while, but it was less of an escape and more for just peace of mind. Maybe he’d pick up a pencil later on; or maybe he’d wait until Gregory got home for work, and have some help with the motivation side of things. Either way, he was grateful. 

~

By the time Gregory got home, Mycroft had managed to do a drawing of an apple. It wasn’t all that good, in his opinion, but it was something. The problem was that the apple was hardly a captivating subject. His mind kept wandering, stirring up emotions as it went; it resulted in his attention lapsing quite frequently, and him getting rather frustrated.   
“Hey, gorgeous. How are you?” Greg asked as he walked into the kitchen. He was glad to see that the art supplies had not only made it to the house, but were strewn about. Mycroft had gone investigating and even had tried to draw what looked like an apple, but Greg knew better than to just make an assumption lest it be wrong — that could put his husband off trying again. Greg smiled and kissed him briefly.   
“I’m alright, I guess. Thank you for your gifts.”   
“It’s no problem; I hope you get some good use out of it all. I’m really glad you tried out the pencils.”   
“It is a mediocre attempt at recreating the image of an apple.”   
“Hey, no; no putting yourself down, you hear? I’m going to be very strict with you on this. It’s amazing that you tried; the result be damned. The fact that it _is_ good is beside the point,” Greg said. He wanted to squash out self-depreciating comments before they became habit.  
“I— thank you, dear.” Mycroft was about to argue, but decided against it once given one of Gregory’s infamous glares. “The subject matter was hardly captivating enough. I need to find something that grabs my eye more than…” Mycroft gestured to the apple sitting beside the fruit bowl. “At least, to begin with,” he said, coughing awkwardly.   
“That’s fine. Apples can be boring. Why not draw an animal? I find them more captivating than fruit. Oh! You could draw me!” Greg exclaimed, his smile brightening.   
“Are you suggesting yourself to be an animal, Gregory?” Mycroft joked. He expected his husband to burst out laughing, but was instead met with an intense stare. Gregory moved in closer.   
“Do you want me to be?” Greg asked, his voice hushed and husky.   
“I—” Mycroft choked, his blood suddenly vacating his brain in favour of other areas. _That_ elicited a chuckle.  
“Oh you are gorgeous when you’re stunned.” Greg uttered, kissing Mycroft deeply. He smiled at the flush of colour on Mycroft’s cheeks and ears, before standing and making himself a cup of coffee.   
“Whilst you would certainly be a captivating subject to draw, I am not practiced in drawing humans nor would I imagine my attention remain upon the drawing process.”  
“Nothing wrong with that. You might just need some more hands-on experience. I would very much like to be the subject of a lot of hands-on experiences,” Greg said. He shot Mycroft a suggestive look.   
“You are rather…” Mycroft rummaged his brain for the correct term, “… _interested_ tonight.”  
“I’m always interested when I see your sexy smile,” Greg responded with a grin, finishing up preparing his coffee. “And if you’re blushing, well… I want to tear off your clothes and see more of your lovely freckled skin go red.”   
“You are veracious, my dear,” Mycroft playfully chided, rolling his eyes and smiling.   
“Guilty.” Greg laughed, and carried his drink over to the table to join Mycroft. “Well, why don’t we make something nice for dinner, and then you can have a go at some life drawing?”   
“And just how enticing will you be, for this?” Mycroft asked accusingly.   
“Extremely so; I would have thought you could have guessed,” Greg giggled, taking Mycroft’s hand in his own. “We’ll make it an exercise in restraint, if you want. I know you do so like that.” Greg took a sip of his coffee to conceal the grin on his face as he said it.   
“Devil,” Mycroft snorted. “I’m glad you’re home. You make my life so much brighter.”   
“So do you, Sunshine. What would you like for dinner?”   
“I hadn’t really thought about it. Anything you would like is acceptable, I believe.”  
“Great! Thick juicy steaks it is.”  
“Gregory,” Mycroft warned. He was met with an adorably innocent smile, Gregory’s head cocked to the side inquisitively. “You know you need to watch your cholesterol.”  
“But… steaks,” Greg pouted. Mycroft shook his head. Greg sighed. Mycroft generally wasn’t a fan of red meat, which had caused Greg’s consumption of it to dwindle significantly since they began living together. It was undeniable that it had been beneficial to his health, really, but he still missed it sometimes. Mycroft had enforced a ‘once a week’ rule regarding red meat, and he’d had roast lamb last Saturday.   
“Tomorrow you may.” Mycroft remained firm. Gregory’s health was important to him. “Tonight we can have grilled fish with chips and salad, if you wish; and yes, the salad is not optional.”  
“Fine; but only cause I’ll get to have meat after dinner,” Greg said slyly, earning him another flush of red on Mycroft’s cheeks, and one of his sassiest eye-rolls. 


	15. Family Matters

Greg was indecisive. No matter how hard he thought about the issue, no progress was made. He was careful to not to let it show too much, lest his ever-watchful husband ask what the matter was. Thankfully, Mycroft was engrossed in colouring one of his pencil drawings, and not really paying Greg that much attention. Well, really, that wasn’t true… he wasn’t paying Greg’s _expression_ that much attention. He was eyeing Greg’s bare skin quite intently. Mycroft wanted to ensure that the skin tones and flushes of red were accurate in his drawing; which had led Greg to sit at the table, naked, facing away from Mycroft, reading a book. However, he wasn’t reading. He was pretending to read while trying to make a decision. 

Sherlock had called two hours ago saying that Mycroft’s father wanted to see Mycroft, and him. Greg wasn’t sure if Mycroft was up for something like that. It was true that for the whole weekend, Mycroft had been coping well. He’d focused on his drawings, dabbled in a few of the other mediums Greg had purchased, and generally been happy to cuddle all weekend. It was Sunday evening, and for the first time, Greg wasn’t overly anxious about going to work on Monday and leaving Mycroft behind. Telling Mycroft anything now would turn that upside down and leave Greg worrying all day, at the very least. However, so far Mycroft’s parents had (one way or the other) respected Greg’s instruction to leave Mycroft alone. Siger had expressed compassion regarding his eldest son. Greg didn’t want to snuff that out by refusing to allow him to talk. It was possible that actually _seeing_ Mycroft not cope would give him the push he needed to try and fight against the storm that was Violet Holmes; and allow Mycroft to get some of that care that remained a void inside him to this day. It was also possible that Mycroft would feel so pressured to present as ‘fine’ that he’d fake his way through a meeting and then have a significantly bad breakdown afterwards. That could definitely be counter-productive to Mycroft’s progress. Greg realised it wasn’t technically his sole decision, but he felt protective enough over his husband to elect to make the tough calls for his health. 

“I had not expected you to be particularly enthralled with that novel, darling. If you like, I can provide you with the first in the series so that the events will make more sense for you, as it is obvious you are struggling to understand the plot thus far.”   
Greg looked up from his book, unaware that Mycroft had noticed him frowning to himself. He closed the book, and looked at the cover. Drat, he’d not realised it was one in a series; that definitely made his secret pondering more suspicious. “Oh, no, that’s ok love. I just grabbed it for something to do while I sat here. I’m not all that interested.”   
“Pray tell, then, why you appear to be so lost in thought?” Mycroft asked, cocking his head to the side.   
Greg eyed him cautiously. He thought that perhaps he could elude to the conundrum and get hints as to what would be the best course of action. “I just… there’s something on my mind, and I’m not sure how to go about it.”  
“Why didn’t you tell me? I’m always here to try and help you, dear.”   
“I know; I didn’t want to bother you though. I can’t help but feel a little responsible for keeping you away from things that might trigger you, as well.”   
Mycroft frowned at Gregory. “You do not need to protect me, Gregory.”  
“Like hell. Sorry, that was a bit blunt. What I mean is… I’m your husband, and I’m going to protect you. You can’t deny that you do need protecting, either. It’s not a bad thing, love. Try and just see it as me caring for you.”  
“I still dislike being kept in the dark, however I must acknowledge you have a point.”   
“Good,” Greg said, and walked over to kiss Mycroft gently. He stood before Mycroft, who remained seated, and ran his fingers through the auburn hair. “You are what I treasure most. I will always be there to protect or care for you,” Greg uttered quietly, and then pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s forehead. “It’s not a question of need.”   
Mycroft placed his drawing on the floor beside the little table he had to hold the pencils. He then wrapped his arms around Gregory’s waist, held him closely, and sighed into the man’s middle. “Sorry. I am still unaccustomed to being unable to be in control of everything.”   
“I know Sunshine; try and believe me when I say it’s a good thing,” Greg said, stroking Mycroft’s back softly. “Now, it’s just a matter has arisen, and I am unable to clearly determine if the potential benefits are worth the potential downfalls. I’ve tried to just look at it objectively, but there’s a lot of emotion involved for both you and me; I can’t just ignore that.”  
“I see.”   
“I just want you to be alright,” Greg said, sighing deeply and resting his head upon Mycroft’s.   
“I know, and while I appreciate your efforts, you must remember that it’s not your fault if I’m not alright. If you talk to me about this, then it’s not you failing to protect me. Consider perhaps it is best to discuss it, as I should have some say in the matter given it concerns me.” Mycroft argued. He didn’t want Gregory to suffer through undue pressures and stresses trying to keep situations better for his sake.   
“I guess you’re right. You do seem capable of thinking about it rationally, at least,” Greg said. He stood backwards, and pulled Mycroft to sit at the table. “Your father has asked to see you.”

Mycroft took a moment before taking a deep breath. Gregory’s concerns were valid, it seemed. He felt panic rising in his chest and the urge to hide away. Mycroft closed his eyes, not bothering to attempt masking the emotions from his husband. Instead, he focused solely on gripping the hand that hadn’t let go of his own. “When?” Mycroft finally asked.   
“Sherlock told me a couple of hours ago. He wants to come tomorrow, I think, alone. He wanted to see me as well, I’m told, which is good; I would refuse to allow him near you without being by your side.”  
“Your ferociousness is appreciated, but unnecessary I believe. My father has never been one for vile outbursts independent of Mummy.”   
“I agree that he doesn’t seem the type, and he has shown some indication that he’s more intending to be considerate and concerned than aggressive. That doesn’t change the fact that I want to be there with you.” Greg shook the hand clasping Mycroft’s to enforce his point that they were in it together. 

Mycroft remained silent while he thought. Whilst he remained panicked by the idea of talking with his father, the situation was a lot less dire than it could have been. He felt confident enough to meet alone, provided Gregory was there for the introduction at least. That way, Gregory could help if he got a sense of negativity approaching. Otherwise, gentler conversation would be manageable. At least, that’s what he felt right now. He was all too aware of how quickly that could change. The question remained: what was his father wanting to discuss? The unknown of it was stabbing him with worry.   
“You ok?” Greg asked after letting Mycroft ponder for a while.   
“Yes. Sorry, I was just considering the situation. I believe I am capable of meeting with Father for a reasonably short length of time, provided you are there when I greet him. I wonder if perhaps you could arrive late tomorrow morning for work, and remain here with me when Father arrives?”  
“I can stay the whole time, Myc.”   
“No, I don’t believe that is necessary. I — I am unsure as to why, but I seem to want to do this.”  
Greg gave Mycroft a very uncertain look, but nodded slowly. “Alright, if you’re sure…”  
“Quite.”  
“Ok then. I’ll let Sherlock know. Is nine alright for him to arrive? I can then be at work by ten, and only have a little backlash from it.”   
“Certainly,” Mycroft stated calmly, despite the unsettled feeling in his stomach. He wanted to do this alone; he wanted to prove that he could cope better with things now. 

~

Greg opened the door to Siger Holmes.   
“Greg my boy! Good to see you. Thank you for allowing me to come,” Siger said brightly.   
Greg squinted at him a moment, before nodding and stepping aside. He couldn’t help but still feel the resentment against him for his part in what Greg coined ‘the Beration of Mycroft’ in his mind. He said nothing as Siger walked into their home, closing the door behind the elderly man. He then stood tall and faced him directly. “As long as you are here to provide care and make amends, you are welcome,” Greg said contentedly, before lowering both his head and voice. “If not, then believe me— I _will_ arrest you,” Greg snarled dangerously.   
Siger frowned, knowing that it wouldn’t be legal, but he wasn’t there to test his luck with Mycroft’s very protective husband. He simply nodded. He followed through the hall out into the kitchen. It had been some time since he’d visited Mycroft’s home.   
“Mycroft?” Greg called, more a warning that they were about to enter the room than anything. Mycroft stood and looked at Greg, and he could tell that he was under quite a lot of strain. He was wearing his pinstripe suit, the one that Greg had realised Mycroft used as his strongest ‘battle armour’. He sighed gently in concern. “Hey, love,” Greg said, walking directly up to him and kissing him; not caring that it was in front of Mycroft’s father. In fact, he was rather pleased with the display; almost as if saying ‘he is mine, and you will not hurt him’.   
“Son, it’s good to see you,” Siger said, remaining a respectable distance from the two men.   
“Father.” Mycroft’s words were simply an acknowledgement; there was no hint of affection or welcome, but neither was there disdain. “Perhaps we should adjourn to the living room, I believe it would serve our purposes more appropriately.”   
Greg held Mycroft’s hand as they walked into the living room, pulling him down onto the sofa with him. Big words and battle armour; Mycroft was anxious indeed.   
“How are you doing, Mycroft?” Siger asked once he’d seated himself in an armchair. He noticed the worried glance his son gave to Greg.   
“As to be expected,” Mycroft answered vaguely. Gregory had told him not to down-play his turmoil for the sake of his father’s comfort; but it was exceedingly difficult to be honest and open about his ordeals. His parents were always distant, always demanding he fend for himself and subsequently, dealt with his problems on his own. It was not considered appropriate to express anything beyond what was expected of him. Despite Gregory informing him that it was ‘fucking bollocks’, Mycroft found it unreasonably challenging to break from the habit of complying to their expectations.   
Greg squeezed Mycroft’s hand tighter. He could feel the slight tremble, and wanted to assure him it’d be alright. “It’s been a tough time, lately. Some good days, but also some really bad ones. But, I think there’s progress.”   
“That’s good to hear. Sherlock believes he’s making progress with Eurus too,” Siger said, and instantly realised his mistake. Mycroft’s body tensed up, and Greg shot him a deathly scowl. Siger watched, in disbelief, as Mycroft began to shake and hyperventilate before him. Greg held him close and rubbed his back soothingly, while speaking gently in his ear. Siger had known generally how things were, and Sherlock had talked to him about Mycroft being ‘fragile’; but even so, it hadn’t meshed with the image of his stoic, detached, _unfeeling_ son. It was as if the image was printed on glass and promptly shattered before his eyes.   
“You’re alright, Myc,” Greg comforted as Mycroft managed to get a hold of the panic. “It’s ok. We knew this could happen. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”   
Mycroft’s face was bright red from both embarrassment and the panic attack. He, at least, could focus properly on breathing steadily now that the images of his sister had stopped dancing before his eyes. His eyes flicked up to his father.   
“I’m — I’m sorry, Mycroft, I didn’t realise—”  
“We don’t talk about her or anything to do with what happened, ok? We’re not at that point yet.” Greg was firm in his statement, serving as a single warning to the man in the armchair, looking flabbergasted. Siger nodded at him. 

Mycroft took some steadying breaths before sitting upright once more. He was glad that none of the eyes on him seemed to question his need for the few moments of silence. “Why are you here, Father?”   
“To be honest, I worried about you. I had not considered your perspective when your mother and I went to your office.”  
“Obviously.” Greg interjected with a grumble.   
“Yes, well, I was angry; I was hurt that we’d been through all that grief only to find that we’d been lied to all this time. Emotions can cloud our judgement, as I think you can understand now—”  
“Why the hell do you assume ‘now’?” Greg snapped, “Why do you think Mycroft never had to deal with difficult emotions in the past? Don’t you think he had to behave so detached _because_ of that very reason?”   
“Gregory, there is no need to get agitated,” Mycroft said gently, and placed his hand on Gregory’s knee.   
“No, he’s — he’s right. I hadn’t thought that. I’m sorry. I guess it’s been difficult to understand all of this, and rethink the past. You know I’m the idiot of the family.”  
“So are you here to express your remorse for your comments? Could that not have been achieved over the phone, or are you really here to inspect the validity of the statements made about me?” Mycroft’s words were sharp and accusing, and Greg was proud of him for it.   
“No, son, really. I felt it was best to try and talk to you face to face; not because I didn’t believe what was told to me, but I felt that as a parent I should try and be there.”   
“Pfft, you weren’t there much before—” Greg began to snap, but was silenced by Mycroft raising his hand. Greg was pleased that Siger took notice of the words; and instead of fighting against them, sunk into his chair.   
“If that is your reason, then I will oblige you,” Mycroft said carefully.   
“It is true, what I told Sherlock… I don’t want to lose you, Mycroft,” Siger said. He looked at both Mycroft and his husband with pleading eyes. “Family is the most important thing to me; I don’t have much of anything else. Even when being shouted at, I was so proud that you found someone to love you that much.”   
“I doubt Violet is of the same mind,” Greg grumbled. Siger nodded solemnly at him.   
“Yes, your mother is still raving. She wants to have you removed from the estate. Don’t worry, I am not permitting it. She can be difficult to argue against, but I won’t let her take you away either.” 

Mycroft seemed to have calmed down and relaxed into the gentle conversation with Siger; and so Greg felt like it was safe to leave. “I’m sorry but I have to head off to work now. I’ll be home later on tonight, alright dear?” Greg stood and leaned down for a kiss. He grasped Mycroft’s shoulder supportively, and gave him a smile.   
“Thank you. I will be alright,” Mycroft said.   
“Siger.” Greg stated, roughly nodding his head. The man might have placated Mycroft thus far, but he still had a ways to go before Greg was contented with him. It was easier to remain angry without the history.   
“Greg,” Siger said in return, aware that there was still friction there.   
Greg left the room somewhat reluctantly, but tried to tell himself that Mycroft had handled things thus far remarkably well.   
_It would be alright._


	16. Musgrave

Greg jumped when his phone buzzed. He’d only really been half-paying attention to his paperwork, his mind ready to leave in an instant if Mycroft called.

**\- I have to go. Don’t worry. MH**

**** Well, Mycroft might as well have just admitted that he was breaking down. Seriously, did that man not realise what saying ‘don’t worry’ in a situation like this meant? Greg’s heart rate increased dramatically as he made to call Mycroft. The fact that he was texting, and not calling, was suspicious as well. He only did that if he wasn’t able to speak properly. The phone rang out, which caused Greg’s heart to leap into his throat. He tried again, whilst awkwardly putting his coat on. Again, there was no answer. He typed a response as he headed out to his car, not giving a passing thought to let anyone know he was leaving.

**\- Mycroft, answer your phone.**

**** Where the hell would he go, anyway? The only place Greg knew that Mycroft escaped to was his desk at work, and he’d not be allowed back in yet. Anthea would have told him if they needed Mycroft urgently for something, wouldn’t she? Greg got into the car after another failed attempt at calling his husband. He was tempted to call Anthea, but some part of his mind suspected Sherlock might be the better option this time. His gut told him this was family-related, given the morning they had; Sherlock was likely his best bet.   
“Sherlock!”  
“Greg?”  
“Where’s Mycroft? Is he there?”  
“No? Why?”   
“I just got a text from him, saying ‘I have to go, don’t worry’.”  
“I see,” Sherlock rumbled, his voice now concerned.   
“I’m headed home now, but he’s not answering his phone.”  
“Unlike him.”   
“Yes, Sherlock, I know! That’s why I’m calling you. Did your father say anything to you?”  
“Nothing that would cause alarm; just that they talked a little about the past and what lay ahead in the future. He said Mycroft appeared fine.”   
“Fuck, Sherlock! Mycroft ‘appearing fine’ while talking about those things is just code for him suppressing the hell out of his emotions and now it’s all boiled over!”  
“I believe you may be overreacting, Lestrade.”   
“Find him, and then tell me I’m bloody overreacting.” Greg grumbled. He hung up the phone, knowing Sherlock had gotten the message. 

Mycroft was nowhere to be seen at home. His car was gone, as well, which was concerning. Mycroft rarely drove anywhere. It was possible he’d asked someone to collect him, but it wasn’t seeming likely. Mycroft only drove if he was feeling like slipping under the radar. That did not bode well. Greg growled in frustration to the empty house.   
“Why the fuck did I let him talk with his father? Good one, Greg!”

**\- Mycroft, please… you’re scaring me.**

**** Greg sent off another text, hoping to try and convince Mycroft to respond. However, if he was driving, it would explain the lack of communication. Mycroft didn’t connect his phone to the car, so likely hadn’t noticed his phone ringing. Greg tried to convince himself of that at least. He paced in a circle along the edge of the kitchen bench, both hands on his hips. He didn’t even know where to begin looking. His heart leapt when his phone rang, but he groaned when he saw the ID as Sally Donovan.   
“What?!” Greg snapped far too forcefully into the receiver.   
“Boss what’s going on?”   
“Sorry, Donovan. Stressful situation, is all.”  
“Where are you?”  
“I’m at home.”   
“Ah,” Sally vocalised, clearly understanding the situation a whole lot better. “Don’t worry, Greg, I can handle stuff for today. Is there something else I can help with?”  
“Thanks, Sal,” Greg said, and suddenly found himself considering enlisting her help to find Mycroft. He decided it was a bit premature for him to utilise Scotland Yard to find his missing husband after all of — twenty minutes. “Not at the moment, but I can’t find Mycroft so I might be back asking for some help later on.”   
“Shit; well, call me if you need.” 

Greg rubbed his face with his hands. It was now looking like an Anthea-job after all. He scrolled down his contact list.   
“Anthea.”   
“Greg, and to what do I owe the pleasure?”  
“Mycroft’s missing.”  
“I—I beg your pardon?”  
“You heard. He’s gone. He texted me that he needed to go and for me not to worry, so you can imagine I’m fucking terrified right now.”   
“I’ll find him. I am assuming he’s taken his car?”  
“Yes. It has tracking on it, doesn’t it?”  
“Possibly; it depends on how discrete Mr Holmes wants to be.”  
“What does that mean?” Greg asked, and waited for a few seconds for Anthea to answer.   
“It means that he’s removed the tracking device, as it is signalling its location as your garage.”   
Greg groaned loudly into his palm, muttering about a ‘fucking genius’, which he was sure Anthea could make out. “Alright. Cameras, then?”  
“Security footage has him headed out of the city, actually.”  
Greg’s brain quickly came up with two locations, given his assumption of this being a family-induced crisis. One was unlikely: his parents’ house. It was conceivable that Mycroft’s father had convinced him to accompany him back to the cottage; however as that would involve Violet Holmes and a less worrisome text message, perhaps a phone call, Greg dismissed the idea. That left only one other likely place.   
“Thanks Anthea. I think I know where he’s headed. Keep trying to track him, and I’ll head out following.” 

Before Greg returned to the car, he went into the living room and grabbed the blanket he’d been using as a substitute shock-blanket for Mycroft. He grabbed a packet of biscuits and filled a bottle of water to take with him, as well. He texted Sherlock where he was heading, and then set off. 

~

Mycroft stood in the field. It was now dark, but he could still see the building clearly. In a way, the darkness seemed more appropriate. He eyed the ground where the marks of the crate had been, where the tyre tracks had disturbed the soil, the still remaining boot prints of men scouring the land. If he closed his eyes he could see it as it was; Musgrave Hall, the place of his childhood. He’d never been able to un-see it burn before him. The image had been stuck with him for life, always reminding him of the troubles the place brought him. He opened his eyes and looked upon the decrepit structure. It still haunted him. It stood reminding him of his failures, of his family, the tortures and torments he went through as a child; and now, it represented something much more recent. The stonework remained standing all these years as if to remind him that he would never be able to forget. His mistakes would stand the test of time as well. He remained standing there before the building, lost in his mind. 

Greg pulled up beside Mycroft’s car. He’d been right in thinking this was where Mycroft had fled to. He got out and grabbed the blanket, and walked towards the building. He was lucky that the moon was rather bright, and he’d been there before and so had some idea of where he was going. He walked up the small hill and saw Mycroft standing stoic before the front of the building. Greg’s face contorted in concern. He walked up to Mycroft, keeping his movements slow and as non-threatening as possible. He wasn’t sure what state Mycroft was in. He managed to stand right behind the man without a hint of a reaction, despite not attempting to be quiet.   
“Mycroft?” Greg spoke very softly. Still, Mycroft jumped, and his head twirled around to see where Greg was. Greg instantly put his hand on Myc’s shoulder, letting him know. “I’m here, it’s ok.”  
“Gregory… what are you doing here?” Mycroft asked, his brain a little slow as it came back to the present.   
“You worried me with your text.”  
“I sent it to do the opposite.”   
“You’re not very good at that, luckily. Once Anthea worked out that you were headed out of the city, I knew you’d be headed here; I followed,” Greg explained, and gently draped the blanket over Mycroft’s shoulders.   
“I— thank you, dear,” Mycroft uttered, reaching to clutch the blanket. He hadn’t realised how cold he was, or how much he was shivering. Gregory then wrapped his arms around him, and Mycroft willingly leant backwards into the warm embrace.   
“Why did you come here?”  
“I felt I had to. Talking of the past, of growing up — it got to me inside, I think. I was trying to explain my experience of it, explain what I could of Eurus. Before you scold Father for it, I must tell you that I was the one that brought it up. He honestly wanted to listen to it, and I believed that it would help his understanding if I talked about what drove Uncle Rudy to do what he did, and why she has been such a cause of anxiety all of my life.”   
“You shouldn’t have divulged into that without me there, love.” Greg wanted to be annoyed, but knew that Mycroft was just trying to do his best. Really, considering the topics, he was coping alright. He’d been doing so well thus far, and it seemed the progress hadn’t all been lost.   
“I’m sorry. I thought I could handle it.”   
“I’m not angry, Sunshine; just concerned for you. I still don’t really understand why you came here, though, because of your discussion.”  
Mycroft sighed. “The urge to escape was very strong. It was almost like a panic to just get away. No where else seemed appropriate. This place… it’s haunted me all my life. It was the embodiment of the trials I faced as a child from Eurus, Sherlock, and my parents. The fact that it remains despite the events that transpired…”  
“It gives you strength? It survived what it went through as well?” Greg asked hopefully.  
“Hardly. Quite the opposite, actually. It stands as testament to my mistakes and failures. It remains to remind me of the dark past, the traumas I can not step away from, and the memories I wish I could forget. I see it burn in my mind, I see her sitting in her room… it will not leave me, and time as not affected the structure as it has not withered the memory.”   
“I’m sorry, hun.”   
“It is not your doing, my dear. It is just an inescapable fact of life. This property is on the estate, and talking of my being removed from the estate made me think briefly that I would then be separated from this wretched place and all it evokes. It is worse, now, given recent events.”   
Greg didn’t know what else to say. Mycroft was still staring pensively at the dilapidated building, unmoving. He released his husband and rubbed his back a few times. “Come on, love. Let’s go home. You’re still shivering. I brought some water and biscuits. Leave your car here; we’ll get someone to come out and drive it back tomorrow.”   
Mycroft turned to face Gregory, and nodded. “Alright.”   
“You look exhausted. You can cuddle up in the front seat and rest while I drive us home, then we’ll head straight up to bed, ok?”   
Greg’s stomach grumbled, and so he decided they’d stop and get some takeaway on the way home. He gently ushered Mycroft away from Musgrave Hall and into his car.


	17. Mycroft's List

Greg stirred awake. He’d been utterly exhausted by the time he’d gotten home. He blearily looked over to his side, to see Mycroft snuggled up with the blankets and his fluffy pillow. Greg smiled gently. Myc always looked so peaceful when he was sleeping, aside from the times of the nightmares. Greg’s heart tugged uncomfortably when he recognised that Mycroft had held the fluffy pillow close to get some semblance of peace to be able to sleep, since Greg hadn’t had the headspace to remember to give Mycroft his sleeping pill last night. He’d all but dropped asleep on the bed. All of the stress and worry so far, yesterday included, had taken its toll on him. Despite sleeping well, he still felt tired and almost achey.   
He suddenly jumped, sitting upright.   
_Fuck, it’s a work day, and the sun’s already up… it’d have to be past nine already.  
_ “Gregory?” Mycroft mumbled as he was awoken by the sudden movements.   
“Shit, I overslept,” Greg said, fumbling for his phone to check the time. It was half-ten.   
“No, you didn’t… you needed it.” Mycroft yawned and stretched.   
“Doesn’t mean I’m not way late for work,” Greg groaned, and threw the covers off.   
“Gregory, relax… you’re not working today,” Mycroft said while sitting up. Gregory turned to look at him confusedly. “I made some calls last night once you’d fallen asleep. You’re not working today.I have arranged for you to work from home on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and to have a half-day on Wednesdays.”   
“Why?”  
“Simple. You were not coping with the status quo, and I felt obliged to step in and do something about it. I care for you more than anything, and I will not allow you to burn yourself out. I don’t understand why you would be upset about it, because you were discussing with me enabling this very situation Friday morning.”   
Greg sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. No, he wasn’t upset with the outcome, really. He was going to see about working from home, and even Sally had recognised the toll the stresses of work and caring for Mycroft had been taking. He was just a little indignant that the decision had been made, and executed, without his involvement.   
“I’m going to have a shower,” Greg said, and walked into the en-suite. He needed to just take a moment and get himself sorted out. He suspected merely being so worn out was affecting him in just accepting the turn of events. He did honestly want to be happy that Mycroft had tried to take care of him.   
Mycroft pouted to himself, and donned his dressing gown. He was feeling guilty about the situation being largely his fault, and a little annoyed that his husband wasn’t appreciative of his efforts to rectify it. He then was overwhelmingly upset about being the cause of the situation. He sighed and left the bedroom, electing to start making breakfast.   
Greg walked in to the kitchen, clean, following the smell of cooking bacon.   
“I get bacon today? What’s the occasion?”  
“Special treat.” Mycroft answered with a grin.   
“I’m sorry I just walked out back there. I just needed a bit of space to wrap my head around it. I am grateful that you care, Myc, I just think it was a bit unnecessary.”  
“Gregory Lestrade, you stubborn git, you need to be considered as well. Since you’re not going to do it, I will. I am disgruntled that I have neglected caring for you for so long, however I must concede that the situation made it rather impossible for me. Enough is enough; you will be looked after if you like it, or think it necessary, or not. You damn-near wore yourself to the ground when Mary died; I’m not about to let you get there now. I know, from then, that you will not permit yourself the care you need when you feel others need you. You can continue to care for me, but that will not stop me being there for you.”   
Greg stood in the kitchen, frozen, listening to Mycroft’s speech. Hearing his husband call him a ‘stubborn git’ had successfully grasped his full attention. The only sounds to be heard was the gentle sizzle of the bacon and soft popping of the eggs in the pan while Greg stared into Mycroft’s eyes. It obviously had taken him a great deal of strength to be able to say what he had, but it was important enough to endure the hardship. Greg swallowed uncomfortably.   
“Myc… I— I don’t know what to say.”  
“You can say, ‘yes Mycroft’, and accept your breakfast along with your care.” Mycroft grinned to himself as he turned his back to plate up Gregory’s food. He turned back and handed the full plate to his husband, a stern look on his face which then broke out into a smile. Gregory accepted it and returned the smile.   
“Thank you, love. Awh, no beans or sausages?”  
“You may have more bacon instead,” Mycroft said, plating up some egg whites on toast for himself.   
Greg sat at the table and waited for Mycroft to join him before starting. The food did smell amazing; he so rarely got what he called a ‘proper’ breakfast these days. Mycroft insisted upon fruit, yoghurt, oats, and muesli most mornings that Greg was around to eat at the table. The other mornings it was a quick croissant from the bakery near the Yard with the morning’s coffee. Mycroft brought over a pitcher of fresh orange juice along with his plate, and seated himself. The sunlight caught Mycroft’s ginger hair ablaze, and Greg took a moment to appreciate it. He was glad he’d convinced Mycroft to stop dying it while he was away from work, and was already plotting how to keep it that lovely auburn colour.

After eating in silence for a few minutes, Greg decided to pose something that had been on his mind. “Should I change my name?”   
“It is up to you, my dear, however I am rather fond of Gregory.”  
“My surname, you twat,” Greg said playfully to Mycroft’s sly grin.   
“Again, it is up to you. I don’t want you to feel pressured to take my name; you are my husband regardless.”   
“Yeah, I know… I just… I like the idea of everyone knowing I’m married to you.”  
“I am partial to that concept myself. However, I know that you are well known as Inspector Lestrade… Inspector Holmes doesn’t have the same connotations.”   
“I know. But… I — I dunno, I guess I’m thinking I wouldn’t mind changing it?” Greg rubbed the back of his neck as he spoke. It was awkward to try and voice his feelings about the matter, since they weren’t a concrete thing. “I’m not expecting you to change your name, either, just saying.”  
“I know. I believe it would be rather difficult to change my name, given my reputation.”   
“I guess there’s always the retirement plan… you could change your name to Mycroft Lestrade to hide from your enemies,” Greg said with a laugh. The pensive look he got in return suddenly made it seem more serious.   
“No, they would easily find me still,” Mycroft said, and took a sip of juice. Greg frowned. He didn’t like that Mycroft had enemies. As a DI, he had criminal enemies himself… but they weren’t nearly as dangerous as the kind Mycroft had.   
“I could hyphenate? Lestrade-Holmes?”   
“Gregory Lestrade-Holmes. It sounds nice, and that is not just because I am the Holmes in question.”   
“Yeah, and I could still just drop off the Holmes when I needed to.”  
“You will not drop me off anywhere, Gregory, lest you suffer the consequences.” Mycroft gave a stern look and then burst out laughing. His husband joined.   
“I wouldn’t dare. It’s good to hear you laugh, love,” Greg said, reaching out and patting Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft grasped it, and lifted it up to his lips to place a chaste kiss upon the tender skin.   
“My Mr Holmes,” Mycroft said softly. 

~

Mycroft stood at the door to his study. He wanted to go in and collect a book, but he’d been eerily avoidant to the room since… that night. Gregory had removed the door not long after the incident, and Mycroft couldn’t blame him. He knew his husband had been in there cleaning occasionally when he had his therapy sessions, more out of stress than anything, but it still felt strange to walk in. He’d avoided the cinema, too, since Sherlock’s prank. It wasn’t all that necessary to go in there, and so it hadn’t affected his life too much; but there was something important he wanted in his study. He took a deep breath and walked in, ignoring the shiver that ran down his body. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a small, old notebook. He decided that he didn’t have to remain in the room to prove his point, and so promptly left. He turned and went into the bedroom instead, where he sat at the small desk in there.   
Mycroft examined the cover of the notebook. The black leather had been worn in places, but the book’s binding remained fairly intact. He’d had it since he was a child. He ran his thumb over the front, remembering the times he’d pulled it out and added to its contents. It was sad, really, how thick the book had become with the glued-in paper in its pages. He opened the hard cover and stared at the first page. It was also stuck on with glue, but it was the only one he’d written himself. Mycroft frowned and let his fingers run over the paper. It was yellowing, tatted, creased from multiple folding and unfolding, torn in the corner, had smudges of dirt in places, and dried tears in concentric circles at the bottom. He let his eyes soak in the words written upon the page, sighing.   
_So many years ago._

He deftly turned the page. Some hand written notes were scrawled down in his younger self’s handwriting. The book had started as a diary of sorts, documenting difficulties and the ways he’d handled situations. He flicked through the pages, perusing each, before he came across the first of the glued-in pages. It was here that the book had changed its purpose in his life. It was the very first list Sherlock had written for him.  
Mycroft went through each page, watching the decent into drugs that his brother had undertaken. Saw little notes that his younger self had included, about Sherlock’s state at the time, what he’d asked of Sherlock, and the response he’d gotten. They were harder to read for him emotionally that it had been to read of the things he’d documented Eurus doing, and the aftermath of Victor Trevor’s disappearance, and even the grief of his parents over Eurus’ demise. Page after page of Sherlock’s troubles… all the things Mycroft had been unable to protect him from. Some notes were illegible scrawl upon scraps, others were carefully written out — obviously written before the drugs had been taken, and some were remaining fragments of notes that had been torn up. Mycroft had kept each and every one. 

“Mycroft?”  
He turned to see Gregory at the doorway, walking towards him. “Hello, dear.”   
“You ok?”  
“Not as much as I would like.”   
“Talk to me,” Greg said as he stood behind Mycroft, placing his hand on the man’s shoulder.   
“I was reminiscing. Thinking so much about the past yesterday, and then the visit to Musgrave, has made me remember this as well.”  
“What is it?”  
“It’s… difficult to talk about. I started this little book with my personal thoughts about the things Eurus did. It begins as a sort of record documenting her development, her actions, and my thoughts and reactions to it all. It then takes a painful turn with the events of Victor Trevor, and Sherlock’s struggles. I’ve written my observations about him, and what I did to try and help… merely thoughts of a child, but they helped get it straight in my mind,” Mycroft explained. He handed the book over gently, and was grateful that Gregory took care with it. “It then has notes about Uncle Rudy’s plan, the fire, and my parents’ guilt over Eurus’s supposed death. After that… well, it served a new purpose: helping me document my brother’s descent into drugs.”   
Greg flipped through the pages cautiously, taking note of the scribbles that adorned the pages. The handwriting improved as he went along, signalling the passage of time. “You… you kept them all?”  
“Yes.”  
“Myc… that’s… you were always so good to him, and I can see how much of a burden it’s been on you all of these years. I’m sorry you had to do it alone, and only had this little book there to help you.”  
“It is not your fault, Gregory,” Mycroft said, not understanding.   
“That doesn’t mean I’m not sorry; it’s an empathic sorry, not a guilty sorry. At least you don’t have to rely on this anymore now that you have me.”  
“Mhm; however, I have continued to keep it updated. Right up until I went to see Sherlock and John about Eurus’ escape. I have been thinking about writing down what happened at Sherrinford here.”   
“Myc… you might not be up for that.”  
“I know, but it feels incomplete without those events written down. The therapist has encouraged me to write out my feelings regarding what happened, and I am more inclined to do so as a continuation to this notebook than in a diary format.”   
Greg nodded slowly, closing the book. It was good for Mycroft to get it all out, and if the therapist had suggested he try, then he must be ready to start confronting the problems. It was worrying, still, that the flashbacks would happen again with greater vigour, and Mycroft would be left more unstable than he has been for a while. But, perhaps that was what needed to happen? Greg knew moving past trauma sometimes involved registering it in its entirety, and then ‘letting go’ so to speak. Other times it was best to just accept that it’s a memory and not poke at it. He was glad that he was going to be home a lot more now if Mycroft was about to embark upon this endeavour.   
“I will take it in small steps, worry not my love.” Mycroft spoke into the quiet.   
“That’s good, at least. You’ll stop if it starts getting too much, right? And I’d prefer it if you only wrote whilst I’m in the house with you.”  
“Agreeable terms.”   
“Good,” Greg said as he kissed Mycroft’s head. “How old were you when you started this, anyway?”  
“Twelve, I believe.”   
“You had good handwriting for a twelve-year-old.”  
“I always liked writing.”  
“That doesn’t surprise me. There’s just something I’d like to talk about, if that’s alright with you?”  
“Hmm?” Mycroft hummed, signalling his amenability to questions.   
“This first page… why did you write it?”  
“It… it was important to me,” Mycroft said, looking down into his lap. He then stood, and opened his hand for Gregory to take. He led him to the bed where they sat side-by-side. “Given what I had seen of Eurus, and of Sherlock, I felt responsible. I needed a physical reminder to look at. As you can undoubtedly see, I have added to the list as time wore on, and scribbled an instruction — orrather, outburst — following an emotionally difficult time.” 

Greg nodded and opened the book to the first page to look upon it once more: 

MYCROFT’S LIST

  1. Always be there for Sherlock. 
  2. Be kind. 
  3. Protect my family.
  4. Do what is hard for the greater good — even if it hurts. 
  5. Stay strong; let no one see your weakness. 



_Caring is not and advantage. All lives end, all hearts are broken._

“You wrote number five later than the other four, and the — erm, note — later than that.”  
“Correct.”  
“It sounds like you were going through a tough time and tried to reach out to someone… only to be let down,” Greg suggested. He knew he was likely wrong, but at least by correcting him, Mycroft would talk about it.   
“Almost. I elected to bear the burdens myself and save others of them early on; it was what was best for Sherlock. I extended it to the general population eventually. I was not very capable of handling emotions as a child. Sherlock wasn’t either, but he was more incapable of understanding them whereas I was incapable of controlling them. I attempted to seek help from my parents, but was instead insulted for it. It became evident that sharing any emotion was an avenue for pain, and the only way to prevent that happening was to prevent the emotions from being seen. I cannot say it hasn’t served me well in a professional sense, but as you can see… such a strategy was bound to fail once the emotional issues breached containment ability.”   
Greg looked between Mycroft and the notes, his heart wrenched from his chest. He didn’t know what to say, and so just embraced his husband firmly. He lent his head against Mycroft’s, and kissed it. “Your parents have a lot to answer for, you know. The fact that you were able to even do this… it astounds me sometimes. You used your strength and intelligence to survive where so many others would have withered. I can see your reasoning for so many of your choices in here, especially what went on with your parents and Eurus’ faked death. Is that what the scribble is about?”   
Mycroft nodded, and sniffled. “I tried to tell Sherlock that; often. It helped him with the emotions, at least for a while. In expressing his emotions more as a child, he learnt how to cope with them a lot better despite still wanting to hide them away because he didn’t understand them very well. I have to remind myself of this when I feel shame that Sherlock is now coping well as an adjusted adult and I am … not.”   
“Hey; you did the best you could, and now you have a chance to finally express yourself and get the support you need for it. It’s served you well in the past, this list, but I think it’s time you made a new one,” Greg said softly. Mycroft nodded against him. Greg kissed his head again and handed the book back.   
“Thank you,” Mycroft whispered.  
“I’m glad you showed it to me. You never were the iceman at all, were you? Just a caring and sensitive soul trying his best to protect his family in a world of monsters.”   
“You knew this already.”  
“Yes, I did, my brave dragon. You fought them all and won.”   
“I survived; I wouldn’t say ‘won’—”  
“Oi, not only did you survive but you achieved all of your listed points and got a loving husband. That’s winning in anyone’s books.”   
Mycroft didn’t say anything; he just nodded and closed his eyes. He put the book down on the bed beside his knee, and leant over to cuddle around Gregory’s waist. “I indeed did get the best prize,” he said with a gleam in his eye.   
Greg pulled them down upon the bed and kissed Mycroft passionately. “So did I,” Greg uttered, and then kissed Mycroft again. Mycroft broke the kiss and nuzzled his neck.   
“And what battle did you win for me?” Mycroft asked into the soft skin.   
“The hardest of them all, I assure you!” Greg exclaimed in jest, “Not punching the prats that are the Holmes.” Greg giggled and Mycroft joined him.   
“A most noble battle indeed. And to have one as your prize, even…” Mycroft played along with a smile.   
“Nah, it’s good. I got the best one, I assure you. The dragon with fancy ice armour who had worn it long enough he’d almost convinced himself he was frozen, too. I proved him wrong,” Greg said, running his hands through Mycroft’s auburn hair.   
“The most valiant of your conquests, indeed.” Mycroft continued to nip and nuzzle at Gregory’s neck, ear, and cheek.   
Greg beamed as he closed his eyes, revelling in the sensations of Mycroft’s tongue, teeth, lips, and hot breath exploring his skin. His heart spread warmth throughout his chest feeling his husband upon him, lovingly giving him tender attention. Speaking of their lives as if it were a fairy tale made Greg immensely happy for the simple reason that fairy tales had happy endings. Theirs might be a way off still, and he didn’t know the way, but they were headed towards it and it was most certainly _there_.


	18. Babysitting Rosie

Greg held an assortment of items in his arms, carrying them out from the living room to take to the storage closet.   
“Myc! You’d better get your fantastic arse down here and clear away your art stuff soon, or your brother is going to see the numerous artworks you’ve done of my cock!” Greg shouted up to the second floor as he passed the staircase.   
“Gregory! Kindly do not shout that in the house,” Mycroft scolded as he descended the stairs.   
“What? Cock? I didn’t hear you complaining last night, especially when it was buried _in_ that fantastic arse of yours.” Greg grinned gleefully at his husband’s bright red flush. “I seem to remember you shouting some other unsavoury words then as well.”   
Mycroft kept his mouth shut and merely nodded. As embarrassed as he was, he also secretly loved hearing those words so freely released from Gregory’s mouth. He couldn’t deny the truth of it, either. He felt some adrenaline rush through his body as he remembered the previous evening: long, passionate, and exhilarating. Admittedly, Mycroft didn’t receive very often, as he found it took a rather long time to get worked up enough to enjoy it given how sensitive he was. The times they did, though…   
“Mycroft?”  
“Sorry. Thinking.”   
“Yeah, I can see that. Any other time I’d help you out with that… but as you can see, I’ve got my hands full and you have some porn to hide before your brother gets here.” Greg continued to walk to the closet and left Mycroft standing looking sheepish on the landing. He deposited the unsafe-for-babies items in the tub on the floor, and walked out to join Mycroft in the kitchen. He was collecting the papers that had been strewn about the table.   
“Is the living room prepared for Rosamund?”   
“Yeah, that should do it, I reckon,” Greg answered. He picked up one of the pieces, a pencil drawing of his posterior. “It’s a shame you don’t want to show anyone these; they’re really very good.”   
“I would have thought you’d be more embarrassed about such a prospect than I, given that it is your genitalia,” Mycroft commented as he took the paper from Gregory’s hand. He was pleased that his husband liked them so much.   
“Ok, well, maybe not some of those close up ones,” Greg said, pointing to the pile in Mycroft’s arm, “but maybe these ones that are more life drawing than porn.”   
“It’s all art, Gregory,”  
“Art can be porn too.”  
Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes as he moved to stash the drawings in their bedroom. Greg grinned, collected up some of the pencils and unused papers, and followed. “I know you’re not actually embarrassed,” Greg stated with a knowing look, despite being behind Mycroft.   
“Honestly? No, I’m not. I like being able to draw this without condemnation or risk of my mother finding it.”   
“That sounds like she did, once.”  
“Why do you think I stopped drawing?” Mycroft asked, turning to look at Gregory as he pushed the pile of drawings onto one of the shelves in the cupboard.   
“You drew a cock and your mother found it, and so you decided to never draw again?” Greg was torn between giggling at the ridiculousness of it, and the shame it was that Mycroft went through that.   
“She was not impressed with me, to say the least. I decided it was better to simply not add to the things I had to hide.”   
“Poor hormonal teenage Myc, trying to get his own secret porn stash and being caught out. You sound like the rest of us… so normal.” Greg teased, deciding it was best to just make light of the situation.   
“I take it your mother found something incriminating of yours?”  
Greg shrugged. “Yeah, but being the punk teen I was, I didn’t give a shit. I had posters of half-naked blokes on my wall, and a few bikini babes for good measure, for most of my teenage years. I didn’t bother hiding my magazines. Of course, these days, people can just clear their browser histories and not have their parents find anything.”   
Mycroft chuckled in amusement. His Gregory was so different to him growing up in so many ways, and yet in others — they were exactly the same. He didn’t have posters, of course, but he did have a secret men’s swimwear catalogue under his bed (it was all he could get his hands on without arousing suspicion). He was about to comment on the availability of porn online these days, when the doorbell rang.   
“And thus concludes the pornographic portion of today’s conversation.” Greg laughed as Mycroft groaned. He pecked a quick kiss to Mycroft’s lips before going to answer the door. 

Mycroft walked into the living room once Sherlock and John had greeted Gregory and followed him into the house. They all turned his way with a smile and said hello, and Mycroft reciprocated. He’d been a bit anxious about entertaining Sherlock, John, and Rosamund for the afternoon, and then Rosamund alone for the evening. Despite his brother’s subdued nature towards him, and the peace achieved with John, he still worried for some reason. Perhaps it was just the thought of company at all. The atmosphere was pleasantly calm as Mycroft walked in and kissed Gregory; he felt the tension accumulated in his body fade away as he took a seat on the couch.   
John passed Rosie over to Greg, who accepted her gladly. He began making cooing noises with a sunny smile, which in turn made both Sherlock and John grin.   
“Hey little one… you remember your Uncle Greg?” Greg sung to the baby. “Jesus she’s getting big, eh, John?”   
“Oh yeah… definitely growing up,” John responded fondly.   
“She is the correct weight for her age,” Sherlock interjected a little defensively.   
“I know, Sherlock. It’s just something people say when they haven’t seen a baby for a while.”  
“Odd.”  
“Yeah, well, you’re going to need to get used to it. You see her every day and so don’t really notice the changes,” Greg said while bouncing on the spot with the baby against his chest. “Myc? Could you get some tea on the go?”   
“Certainly, darling.”   
Mycroft could hear the voices from the lounge as he put the kettle on and drew out enough cups for the company. He prepared a tray, deciding it better than pulling everyone out to the kitchen table. In little time he carried the tea tray back to the living room, where he saw Sherlock reach out to his side and wrap his arm around John’s waist. He froze. John reciprocated the initiation of contact by leaning into Sherlock’s body.   
“Thanks for watching her tonight, Greg. It’ll be a nice chance for us to have a romantic evening,” John said, and Sherlock hummed his agreement. Mycroft remained frozen in the doorway, staring, unable to process what was going on before his eyes.   
_What? When did… what?  
_ Greg noticed Mycroft’s stunned demeanour, and then his eyes blew wide. He’d forgotten to mention anything to his husband.   
“Hey, Myc… there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Greg said sheepishly. He grinned, hoping that Mycroft would take the news well. He knew that Mycroft wouldn’t be against it, in any way, but the sheer shock of it would be unsettling.   
“You… you’re together, now?” Mycroft croaked.   
“Yes, brother mine. I had assumed Greg told you the developments regarding my relationship with John.”   
“Yeah… my fault, sorry.” Greg chuckled awkwardly.   
“That’s — that’s great news, brother. I’m happy for you.” Mycroft managed to wrangle out, and stiffly walk to the table in the middle of the room to put down the tray. Gregory passed Rosie back to John, then walked up to him and hugged him around the middle tightly.   
“You alright, dear?”  
“Fine; it was a shock, that’s all. I am truly happy for them.”   
“It’s not, well, a normal relationship —er, yet— I suppose. We’re just seeing where things go. I’m still just getting used to the idea of it all and Sherlock’s patient with me. Small steps to see what’s comfortable, you know? Just seeing how much of the romance side of things we — or rather, I — want.” John explained hesitantly, and none too eloquently. He flicked his eyes to Sherlock for help.   
“And I’m comfortable with that,” Sherlock added with a nonchalance. The subtext was ‘obviously’, but Greg and Mycroft both were impressed that Sherlock hadn’t said it aloud.   
“Good… good.” Mycroft hummed, allowing himself to be seated on the couch and given a cup of tea from his husband.   
“Sorry to spring it all on you like this,” John said.   
“At least you didn’t walk in to Baker Street and see them shagging on the couch?” Greg offered, but was instantly shot daggers from three pairs of eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He decided he’d just fill his gob with tea instead.

John passed Rosie back to Greg once he’d sat on the couch next to Mycroft. The baby giggled happily and kicked her legs. Greg was thrilled that Rosie was so happy to be in his arms. The feeling was short-lived, however, as she instantly leant towards Mycroft and clenched her fists repetitively. After a quick confirmation nod from John, Greg passed Rosie over to Mycroft.   
“Hello, Miss Rosie,” Mycroft said gently.   
“Since when have you been willing to hold a baby, brother mine?”   
“Not since you were one,” Mycroft scolded, “and that was only two months ago.”   
John and Greg snickered to themselves as Sherlock squinted in Mycroft’s direction.   
“If you must know, I have grown quite fond of little Rosie. I admit I was hesitant to begin with, but now I enjoy her company.”   
Greg smiled and rubbed Mycroft’s arm gently. He felt proud of Mycroft for getting over his aversion to babies. The fact that Rosie was older now also helped. “I’m glad, love.”   
“Thank you, Gregory,” Mycroft said, smiling while Rosie grabbed his nose. “She does seem to like me.”   
“Wait, _why_ didn’t you like babies?” John asked.   
“He’s never really liked them,” Sherlock answered.   
“That’s not true, Sherlock… I looked after you, remember, and I liked you,” Mycroft said. He then looked away and frowned. “You seem to forget that the last infant I cared for was Eurus.”   
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock uttered, much to John’s amazement.   
“I thought you said you didn’t like them being so fragile?” Greg asked, a little confused.   
“I don’t, but I could hardly talk about the experience with a sister whom I was keeping the existence of hidden. She was peculiar from early on, and it unnerved me. She would lay there as an infant and just stare; it was different than Sherlock’s curious looking about; it felt much colder. That never went away. There were other things… but I hope you’ll forgive me for not feeling like talking about it.”   
Mycroft returned his attention to Rosie, who was still happily grabbing at whatever she could reach. Gregory rested his hand upon Mycroft’s knee, and rubbed it gently. He leant his head to the side so that it lay upon Gregory’s cheek and shoulder. Rosie hadn’t seemed to notice the change in atmosphere around her, and was still contented to pull at Mycroft’s jumper; which he didn’t mind, as it wasn’t his favourite. He wrapped his hands around the baby’s back and held her closely, just enjoying the feeling of the warmth radiating from her in his lap and Gregory against his side.   
“You two are adorable, you know? I know it’s not really my place, but you’d make great dads,” John said. He remained looking fondly at the two men snuggled up on the couch with his daughter, thinking that they looked like a happy little family. His heart tugged painfully at the memory of Mary, and how it should have been him there on the couch with her and Rosie. He tried not to let his change in demeanour known, but Sherlock could obviously tell. Sherlock could always tell when something was bothering him, and for that, he was grateful. Thin fingers brushed over the top of his hand, and John grabbed them and held them close. They’d grown more accustomed to an increase in physical contact, bordering intimacy, and John was glad that the contact was just reassuring, and nothing more. It had been surprising, really, how ‘ok’ he’d been with touching Sherlock more than just a friend… it hadn’t been stressful, nor repulsive; merely comforting. He could honestly say he was looking forward to tonight. 

“So, did you end up getting Mycroft some art supplies?” John asked after they had sat in a comfortable, albeit slightly lamentable, silence for some time.   
“It appears so.” Sherlock deduced not only that Greg _had_ gotten the art supplies, but exactly what Mycroft had done with them, based on the instant flush of red on his brother’s face.   
“Let me guess… charcoal smudge on his hand? Pencil shavings on the bench?” John postured.   
“Something like that…” Sherlock grumbled with a twinkle in his eye.   
Greg was both impressed and thankful that Sherlock didn’t mention the — frankly, endearing — colour of Mycroft’s face. The man was really maturing, and not just putting it on for Mycroft’s benefit whilst being of a somewhat fragile nature; it had been a concern hovering in the back of his mind last time Sherlock had visited, despite his conversation with John. Part of Greg wondered if Sherlock was stepping up to be the adult John needed him to be in order to be a father. He did seem quite besotted with Rosie, almost as much as he was with John.  
“So, Baker Street is all set up again?” Greg asked.   
“Yeah, we’re all moved in now,” John answered.   
“I would imagine Sherlock is keeping his harmful substances out of this little one’s grasp?” Mycroft inquired whilst little fingers attempted to explore Mycroft’s tongue. “She is certainly inquisitive.”   
“Oh yes, it was a very strict condition of us moving in. No experiments in the common areas. You wouldn’t believe it, but the kitchen actually looks like a kitchen.”   
“And to where have you been exiled to perform you experiments, brother mine?”  
“St Bart’s,” Sherlock grumbled, “however it is not an issue. I am glad to accomodate John.”   
“Good, I’m proud of you, Sherlock,” Greg said, unable to stop himself grinning like a chuffed father.   
“Yes, well… on that note, John, we should leave.” Sherlock was abrupt, and stood suddenly.   
“Um, yeah, sure, ok.” John was less prepared for the sudden departure, and took his time stretching as he got to his feet.   
“Have a good evening. We’ll be ‘round tomorrow morning with the bub, yeah?” Greg smiled and stood, giving both John and Sherlock a hug. 

Once Sherlock and John had departed, Greg returned to snuggling Mycroft on the couch.   
“Gregory?”  
“Yes, dear?”  
“I can’t stop thinking about John’s comment. I wanted to talk about it with you.”  
“Sure,” Greg said happily, despite rummaging through his memory to try and remember what John had said that Mycroft would want to discuss. John’s relationship with Sherlock? Eurus as a baby?   
“What are your feelings about becoming parents?”   
_Oh_. Parents. “Um, it’s a bit mixed, actually. I mean I would love to have a family, but we’re not really in a position to do that right now, and there’s the issue of age to think of—”  
“Gregory, I asked for your feelings, not your logical reasonings. You want children, yes?” Mycroft asked sternly, staring directly into Gregory’s chocolate eyes.   
“Yes, I do,” Greg whispered. He reached out and let Rosie grab his fingers, and broke out into a smile — but his eyes remained sad. “Do you?”   
“I admit I have given it some thought. I think entirely emotionally, I do. I feel like I would enjoy being a dad. It is when other considerations come into play that I feel trepidation.”   
“What considerations?”   
“My current emotional upset is not a conducive environment in which to raise a child.”  
“That might change, though, if you have a big positive emotion bundle in your life.” Greg realised he wasn’t forming correct sentences, but it didn’t matter, as long as the meaning was conveyed. He received a raised eyebrow for his attempt.   
“Perhaps, however it would be too much to risk, I believe, to bring a child into our home and then fail to provide adequate care because of emotional breakdown on my behalf.” Mycroft looked to the floor when he spoke, and Greg could see some pain in his eyes.   
“You’re afraid of raising kids that need to take care of themselves, like you were, and being to blame for that.” Greg didn’t phrase it as a question.   
“Yes,” Mycroft breathed. “I don’t want to cause any more suffering, Greg.”   
Greg grasped Mycroft’s hand firmly. “Hey now, you listen to me. If we decide to adopt a child, you’re not going to make it suffer. All parents fail in one way or another, you’ll have to accept that part at least… but you will be an amazing father, I know it. You’d love that baby with all of your heart and provide everything it needs,” Greg said, leaning in to nuzzle at Mycroft’s cheek. “Remember the the first three things on your list, Myc… they were written by a deeply caring child. You can’t lose that, and you will continue to uphold those values as a father instead of a big brother.”  
“But I failed so badly as a big brother, how could I—”   
“Myc, no… shh, come on Sunshine, it’s alright… you didn’t fail at anything. You did a bloody wonderful job, you hear?” Greg did his best to make supportive comments amidst his husband’s broken sniffles. He kissed Mycroft on the temple. “I can tell you’re torn up between really wanting to raise a family and your fear of failing at it because of your past. Let me just say that I’m not expecting anything. I’m happy staying the doting uncles to one very spoiled Miss Watson. We’ll focus on you finding your feet again first, and then we’ll see where to go from there, yeah?” Greg implored. He smiled when Mycroft nodded, taking a deep breath. Greg used his thumb to wipe away a few stray tears that escaped down his husband’s cheeks.   
“I love you, Gregory.” Mycroft said, a little hoarse.   
“I love you too, Sunshine. Now, just put thoughts about a family in the back of your mind. That’s for another day. I’m glad to hear you’d like children, but really… we’ve got some things to work on first. Instead let’s just be the best uncles ever for this cutie; so much so that she won’t want to leave.”   
“John would not be impressed.”  
“Haha, no, he wouldn’t. But that’s not our responsibility,” Greg teased. He was successful in eliciting a chuckle from Mycroft. “You know she’s going to ask us for a car when she’s eighteen, right?”  
“I am unfamiliar about the protocol in that scenario… do we acquiesce to her request?”   
“Eh, I think we’ll let her _dads_ deal with that one.”   
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, darling,” Mycroft warned, but his eyes were full of affectionate warmth. He really did want Sherlock and John to remain together; and whilst it seemed likely at this point, he didn’t want to tempt fate — it seemed particularly harsh with his family. 


	19. Small Hiccough

Greg was siting at the table in the garden. It was a lovely day; not too hot, but bright and sunny. It felt wrong to be indoors on a day like today. He didn’t force Mycroft to join him since he knew the man disliked being out in the sun at all, and seemed to look out towards the garden with trepidation when Greg had mentioned it. He had a cup of iced tea with him, and some police reports to flick through. He honestly rather liked working from home, and wondered why they couldn’t do their paperwork outside when at the Yard. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Mycroft had been right, as usual: he’d been working himself too hard thinking he shouldn’t get care when he needed to care for someone else. Sally had also been right when telling him he needed to take some time off and sort out the stresses of home before trying to work his job properly. Mycroft was, and always will be, his priority. Greg knew that he wouldn’t have been able to relax this way without been given the permission to do so.   
_Permission, mate? Ha, they bloody forced it on you.  
_ Greg chuckled at his inner thoughts. It was true, after all… having it forced upon him meant that he could destress without the guilt of thinking he shouldn’t be taking it easy. He’d just always been that way. 

He was broken out of his reverie from the sounds of his phone ringing. He sighed and smiled, ready to talk to Donovan about the cases (she’d called a few times since he’d been working at home), but then frowned when he saw it was Mycroft calling. Mycroft was upstairs… wasn’t he?  
“Mycroft?” Greg answered in a panic. “Where are you?”  
“Bedroom,” Mycroft said, his voice clipped.   
“I’m coming.” 

Greg hung up and rushed inside. Was Mycroft injured, and had been calling out for him?   
_No, it’s more likely he’s having a flashback or something, and still couldn’t reach me.  
_ “Myc?” Greg asked as he walked into the room. Mycroft was curled up on the floor near the desk in the corner, his back against the drawers.   
“Sorry,” Mycroft breathed, trying hard not to hyperventilate.   
“You did the right thing by calling, love. It’s alright… want to tell me what’s happening?” Greg knelt down beside Mycroft, and then sat holding him close.   
“I… memories.”  
“Sherrinford?”  
Mycroft shook his head, but the nodded as well. Greg ran his hand up and down Mycroft’s back, soothingly. He looked up at the desk and saw Myc’s book, and a pen. So, he’d been writing the events of Eurus’ escape. He sighed. He didn’t want to chastise Mycroft right now, but why on Earth was he writing that without him in the room?   
“Mycroft, just focus on the feeling of my hand, and my voice. Copy my breathing.” Greg recited, the words running out almost on autopilot. Mycroft at least was getting better at breaking out of the memories, even if he was still struggling to control the panic attacks that came with them.   
Mycroft managed to calm himself down. He slumped backwards against the desk. “I’m sorry, Gregory.”  
“For which part?” Greg asked, giving him a stern look. Mycroft squirmed under his gaze.   
“All of it?”   
“No, you should be sorry you started filling in your book without me here with you, but not sorry for everything else.” Greg’s voice was gentle, but still scolding enough to make Mycroft look away shamefully.   
“I thought it would be alright to start. You were close by, and I was only writing how Eurus impersonated John’s therapist, the prank that Sherlock and John pulled, and I also intended for the events at Baker Street… however I found myself incapacitated before I could begin that part.” Mycroft groaned slightly, wiping the sweat off his brow. He was exhausted. Even though his muscles had stopped physically shaking, they still felt weak and shaky.   
“Come on, let’s get you up off the floor.” Greg stood, stretched, and then helped Mycroft to his feet. He grasped around Mycroft’s waist and helped him to walk to the bed after seeing him stumble. “I know you thought you were being cautious to just write the not-so-bad parts, but Mycroft, I thought I’d made it clear I didn’t want you to do any of it if I wasn’t there with you. Your mind is brilliant, and unfortunately also exceptionally dangerous in how it can string things together. It was expected that once you started on that train of thought, it was going to take you through _all_ the stops before you realised you wanted to get off.”   
Mycroft didn’t answer, and merely nodded. He enjoyed Gregory still stroking his back softly. His husband’s metaphor was surprisingly adequate; he had found himself confronted with all of the emotions and consequences of his actions, as well as the images of Eurus from childhood and Sherrinford, the moment he’d started to write them out. It had happened so quickly Mycroft hadn’t been able to put a stop to it like he’d anticipated.   
“You look exhausted. Why don’t you lie down here and I’ll bring you up a bee cake to give you some energy?”  
“What exactly is a ‘bee cake’?”   
“Oh! I made them when you were at your therapist appointment a little while ago, and put them in the freezer. They’re these balls of cake that I decorated to look like bees. I have no idea where I got the idea from… it just came to me. Maybe I had been talking to Sherlock? Anyway, they have honey and honeycomb in them and taste great even if they look a little… lopsided.”   
“Ohh… so that’s what you were talking about,” Mycroft said, nodding slowly with realisation.   
“What? When?”  
“Never mind,” Mycroft said, shaking his head and grinning. He was too tired to object to eating a sugar filled cake, which told him he probably could use the energy. 

~

Greg slipped on his jacket, the leather one he liked to wear when going out to the pub with John. He had his rougher jeans on — not his torn ones, but not his ‘nice’ ones — and a simple grey button-down shirt. He trotted down the stairs and headed to the kitchen; he wanted to get some water into his system before he started drinking. He downed the glass and then was met with his husband’s accusational-inquisitive raised eyebrow.   
“John asked me to the pub tonight,” Greg explained, “I did tell you about it.”  
“So you did; I’m sorry love, I forgot,” Mycroft said while he slumped slightly.   
“You can still come if you like?”  
“No, no that’s alright, thank you. I don’t feel quite up to being in a crowded, and loud, room.”  
“Well, how about you go spend the evening with Sherlock? He’s staying at Baker Street with Rosie.”   
“I—” Mycroft choked, “I don’t wish to go to Baker Street yet, without you in the very least.”   
“Ah.” Greg nodded. He didn’t think about Sherlock’s flat reminding Mycroft of the bombing Eurus orchestrated. “You could invite him here instead?”   
Mycroft inclined his head in agreement, and looked up at Gregory with pleading eyes. His husband grinned and rolled his eyes, pulling out his phone.   
“The things I do for you…” Greg chuckled as he called Sherlock. 

Soon after, both Sherlock and John had arrived at Greg and Mycroft’s place. Greg noticed how Sherlock looked rather awkward, and realised that a pleasant social visit wasn’t the norm for him; he was unsure exactly what to do. He had been given a talking to on the way there about not triggering Mycroft, and so was left unsettled. Greg just clasped his hand over Sherlock’s shoulder, smiled and told him to relax. As soon as Rosie saw Mycroft, she writhed out of John’s grasp to reach him. Greg found it adorable, but John was struck with a little fatherly jealousy. Greg decided it was best they left for the pub.   
It was louder than normal, filled with multiple groups of people. Greg instantly was glad that Mycroft hadn’t joined them. Thankfully, most of the crowd seemed to be gathered around the bar and the screens playing the latest match; it meant that Greg could grab a table in the back whilst John got the first round.   
“Cheers, mate,” Greg said, picking up his glass and taking a swig. “So, how’s things?”  
“Good, yeah… really good.”  
“You still haven’t told me how your romantic evening went!”  
“Oh, well, it was nice,” John said, blushing. He looked upon Greg’s expectant face and rolled his eyes. “We had a good time. Dinner, movie, cuddles.”   
“That does sound nice, yeah.”  
“We didn’t have sex,” John blurted out. He could tell Greg was silently poking for the information.   
“That’s fine mate; it might happen, it might not… no stress.”   
“I kissed him, though.”  
“Nice!” Greg couldn’t contain his joy, beaming toothily. “How was it?”  
“The kiss? Um… good.”  
“Just good?”  
“Well… the first one was a bit awkward.” John shrugged.   
“Oh, so there was more than one?”  
With anyone else, John would have clobbered them by now for their nosiness. Greg, however, was that one friend he shared everything with. Ever since they had their regular tea visits, they had been open and shared all of their thoughts, feelings, and other things that might happen to them. It was strange to think he had a friend to do that with, since he was generally a private man and had enough trust issues for the entire pub. But with Greg… John enjoyed just being able to blurt out stuff, and to let someone else in. “Yeah,” he admitted, “Quite a lot, actually. I was nervous about the first one, but it felt right. After that… I don’t know what I was worried about. I wasn’t there thinking: it’s a guy’s lips, it’s a man’s tongue in my mouth, those hands touching me are male… I was absolved in the moment and it was just me and Sherlock. Sherlock’s lips, tongue and hands. It was, well, liberating.”   
Greg smiled with that special twinkle in his eyes while he drank his lager. He was just so incredibly happy that those two _finally_ got together. They’d been pining long enough. Anyone pining longer than he and Mycroft had was just… sad. Well, Mycroft had pined longer than him. Greg shut it out and wouldn’t let himself think it because marriage and then depression…  
“Greg?”  
“Sorry, just thinking how happy I am for you, mate.”   
“Right,” John said skeptically, since Greg’s face had fallen to something more pensive, but let it drop. “So how are things with Mycroft?”  
“He’s managing alright. Getting him to start drawing again has been really helpful, I think. He spends a lot of time on his art now. We had a bit of a hiccough today, when he decided to write out what happened in his book—”  
“His book?”  
“Yeah, he has this book that he started when he was just a kid. Basically a record of all the shit family has put him through. It’s got the things about Eurus, and how it affected him; and then it became mostly keeping track of Sherlock. He kept every one of those lists he made Sherlock write when he took drugs, you know? All pasted in that book.”   
“Fuck, I had no idea…”  
“Yeah, he fooled most people he was an uncaring bastard. Not so, not by a long shot.”   
“Mhm, It’s only because of you that I saw otherwise, really. The signs were all there before but I never really looked past the iceman persona.”  
Greg nodded, and offered to get them another round. He’d drunk his faster than he would have liked, but the topics had been a little more emotional than he’d been expecting. As long as he could get home, he was fine. He wondered how Sherlock and Mycroft were getting on. 


	20. Respect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up there's some sensitive topics here.

Greg was sitting in bed, waiting for Mycroft to join him. The few pints he’d had with John had left his system, now. He’d arrived home with a pleasant buzzing and kissed Mycroft quite excessively in front of Sherlock and John. He’d then informed Mycroft how adorable he found it when he blushed, and likened it to the flush of red on the man’s skin when he came. That had earned him a scolding and solitary confinement until he’d sobered up. Well, it was ‘stay on the couch’, but since Mycroft wasn’t on top of him on the couch, Greg had decided it was a punishment. After a couple of hours, Greg had realised why Mycroft was embarrassed with what he’d said, and had apologised emphatically. Mycroft had forgiven him quickly, and then said he’d deserved as much. Greg wasn’t sure exactly what that had meant, but didn’t ask about it. 

He’d thought that given his earlier comment, Mycroft would not be interested in having sex of any description. However, much to Greg’s elation, Mycroft walked towards him from the bathroom utterly naked with a predatory gleam in his eye.   
“Oh, am I about to be punished?” Greg teased, pulling the covers off his own naked body.   
“No,” Mycroft said sternly. He kept his eyes fixed on Gregory’s as he approached the bed and straddled Gregory’s hips. “But you are going to do exactly as you are told.”  
“Oh, mmm… I do like the idea of that,” Greg hummed.   
“I did not give you permission to speak.” Mycroft’s voice was harsh. He pinned both of Gregory’s wrists to the bed with his hands. His nose remained mere inches above his husband’s, but he didn’t move to kiss the lips that were anticipant of his own.   
Greg felt the adrenaline surge through his veins and his heart pound in his chest. Mycroft rarely was so dominant, and the excitement of it was driving Greg wild. Maybe he’d make poor decisions more often? He took his eyes off the wet lips hovering above him and looked directly into Mycroft’s blue eyes. His heart jumped at the intensity, but his stomach flipped uncomfortably when he saw the darkness that hid behind them. He didn’t know what it was, but it was unsettling; it told him something wasn’t right. His mind was instantly clouded with the explosion of sensation as Mycroft ground his hips against Greg’s erection. He groaned loudly.   
“Myc…” Greg breathed, but he was kissed before he could say anything else. It was a forceful kiss; Mycroft pressed firmly and sucked Greg’s lower lip. It was needy, that was certain, but lacked a sense of intimacy that twinged Greg’s stomach again. He tried to tell himself he was just being silly, that Mycroft was still just annoyed at him enough to want to be dominant tonight. He was ok with that.   
“Listen to me. I’m going to release you, but you’re going to obey me, you hear?”   
Greg nodded quickly.   
“Good.” Mycroft sat upright and lifted his hands off Gregory’s wrists. “Now, I want you to fuck me. Hard.”   
Greg’s breath caught in his throat. His hips jerked involuntarily. He was desperate to thrust against Myc, to grasp around their cocks… but he wanted to keep his self control and obey Mycroft. He rose his shaking hands and slid them up Mycroft’s thighs, and then up his sides. Mycroft didn’t move, he didn’t make a noise; he just continued to stare into Greg’s eyes. That strange look was still there, stronger than before. Greg frowned.   
“Mycroft, is everything ok?”   
“Fine. Now, I want your cock in me.”   
Mycroft’s answer didn’t alleviate any of Greg’s concerns. Greg wanted to ask more, but was silenced by some vigorous thrusting that brought blissful friction. He closed his eyes and groaned, sliding his hands down to Mycroft’s arse and grasping each cheek in his hands firmly. Mycroft hummed in response to that, and so Greg allowed himself to grip harder and grind again. He could feel Mycroft lean forward, and then heard the pop of a cap of lube. He cracked his eyes open and saw Myc slick them both up.   
“Ahh… Myc, yeah…” Greg groaned. Tingles ran through his body at each stroke of Mycroft’s hand. He snapped his eyes open completely when he felt Mycroft let go and climb off him. “Myc?”  
“Get over here and fuck me, Gregory,” Mycroft said crudely. “Shove me into the bed. I want to feel you.”   
Greg was completely torn. His body responded excitedly, but his mind was hesitant. Mycroft never behaved like this, and it still felt off. He didn’t seem to have enough blood to occupy his brain enough to let it think clearly as well as be hard as hell.   
“What’s brought this on?” Greg asked finally. He sat up and reached for the lube.   
“I need to _feel_ ,” Mycroft hissed. He pressed his face into the bed.   
“It’s alright to want that, Myc, but you want to feel _good_ , right?” Greg asked hesitantly, lubing a finger up while kneeling behind Mycroft.   
“Enough talking.”  
“Mycroft… I think we should talk about this.”   
Mycroft sat up and looked directly at Greg with a force he’d only seen him show political enemies. Greg reflexively drew backwards. His gaze was unsettling, like he wasn’t really seeing Greg at all.   
“What is there to discuss? I have told you what do to. I am obviously willing, so why aren’t you?” Mycroft spat, his face almost snarling. “Don’t try and complicate this. I just… I _need_ this.”   
Greg breathed raggedly as Mycroft climbed back on him. He could understand just needing sex, just wanting to feel and not think for a while. It might not be the healthiest thing, but he’d done it before and it was a good break for a time. He was still concerned about that distant darkness in Myc’s eyes, but he nodded.   
Mycroft pressed both hands upon Greg’s pectoral muscles, and thrust slowly against the hot body below him. His mind was focused on just one thing: feeling. He couldn’t really feel the pleasure of his cock sliding against his husband’s; he just felt the need for more. Harder, stronger, more _painful_ sensations. He tilted his hips so that he rubbed his entrance over his lover’s cock.   
“You’re really desperate, eh?” Greg chuckled as he made to press a lubed finger into the ring of muscle.   
“No,” Mycroft grumbled.   
“You’re not desperate?”  
“No, not like that. Not slow. I want you in me _now_.” Mycroft moved to align Gregory’s cock and then pushed down on it.   
“Oi! Hold on!” Greg exclaimed. Mycroft stopped and sighed deeply.   
“What?”  
“You can’t just… we need to prepare you, or it’ll hurt, remember?”  
“That’s the point!” Mycroft snapped, frowning at Gregory. He made to continue.   
“No, Mycroft… stop,” Greg insisted, sitting upright and dragging his body out from underneath his husband. “I’m not going to hurt you.”   
Mycroft continued to frown, squinting, as he slumped onto the bed. “I’m asking you to; you have no reason to feel bad about it.”  
“I don’t fucking care, Mycroft. I love you far too much to be an accessory to your desire for self harm. Yeah, don’t think I haven’t worked out what you’re doing.”  
“What does it matter if I want to feel the pain instead of the pleasure?”  
“It makes all the difference, Mycroft! You’re not in your right mind right now and I am not going to take advantage of you, and I definitely am not going to hurt you regardless of if you want it. Not like that. A bit of rough play, some slapping… sure, but not potentially damaging pain because you’re not well.”   
Mycroft snorted, but sunk into himself. He remained brooding and angry, though. “So you’re going to reject me, now?”  
“Mycroft…” Greg started, but sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Talk to me.”   
“What’s the point?” Mycroft sneered and flopped himself down on the bed. He rolled over to his side, facing away from Greg, and pulled the covers over himself.   
“Myc please… I care about you; and if you’re not ok, if you’re feeling like you need to hurt yourself… then I want to listen.” Greg pleaded, but Mycroft didn’t say anything. Greg snorted, annoyed. He was trying to be respectful and considerate, but Mycroft was … well, being a dick. Greg knew he wasn’t himself, but it still hurt. Part of him felt like he’d been used, even if the idea was for Greg to be the one to take advantage. He grunted. “Fine, don’t talk. You can bloody mope on your own if you’re going to be like this.”  
“Like what?”  
“Refusing to let me help you, and making me out to be the bad guy because I respect you too much to rape you!”   
“It’s not rape, Gregory. I was _asking_ you cause me pain. Don’t be dramatic, I was perfectly willing.”   
“I wasn’t!” Greg shouted. “I’m not fucking willing to hurt you, and so you demanding me to do it anyway…” he sighed. “Look, I’m going to get some air. This is a sensitive issue for me.”

Greg stood and pulled on some pants, and threw on his dressing gown. He hadn’t talked to Mycroft about his experiences with his ex-wife; he hadn’t told him how she’d want sex and then later call it rape because she decided she didn’t want to after all, despite how Greg had constantly asked for reassurance each time; and how he’d eventually gotten too afraid to do anything remotely sexual with her because of the emotional torment.He still got riled up when the term was used, even at work. It had been a good way for her to ensure Greg wouldn’t try anything while she was sleeping about. He knew he shouldn’t really be _this_ upset from Mycroft’s actions, and that Mycroft didn’t know about his past to understand it, but it really hit a tender spot. Greg groaned loudly, finding himself in the kitchen where the noise echoed off the tiles.   
“Fuck it, I need another drink.”   
He poured himself some scotch and threw it back in a single gulp. He stood at the bench, arms holding him up as his head hovered over it, eyes closed. The house was deathly silent at two in the morning; there were no noises from the outside world cluttering the halls. In the quiet he could hear the sounds from the bedroom, the faint sounds of sobbing. Greg groaned and rubbed his face. He pulled out his phone. He wondered if John or Sherlock was sleeping yet… they hadn’t left the house until about midnight, so it was possible they were still up.   
“Christ, what would I even say? I feel fucking terrible because Myc tried to get me to fuck him as a form of self harm? And I left him crying in the bedroom because of the confrontation we had?”   
Greg sneered to himself. He tossed the phone on the counter. While he could understand Mycroft’s impulses, he was fuming that the man had tried to include him in it. As if such a consideration wouldn’t matter to him. Sure, to Mycroft, it probably seemed a win-win: ‘feel pain without showing it was self harm, and let my husband get off’. The bastard just didn’t _get it_. He banged down on the table with his fist. He would make Mycroft understand that it wasn’t ok to do what he did, and that getting angry isn’t the way to respond to someone trying to care for you. But… it had to be later. He couldn’t try do it now; Mycroft just wasn’t in a place to be able to understand that, apparently.   
Worry twisted his gut when he thought that Mycroft might turn to other means of self harm if denied this one and subsequently walked out on. Greg didn’t want to go back up there and offer care again. It hurt too much still. Although, he didn’t want to leave it until he felt better about the situation and find Mycroft with a blade and blood everywhere. Yet at the same time, he felt he shouldn’t have to put himself aside all the time in fear of what the reaction might be if he didn’t offer his support.   
“What do I do?” Greg grumbled to himself, rubbing his face. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, pushing away the hot sting of tears. “What the fuck brought this on, anyway?” 

He couldn’t take it anymore; he just needed someone there for him to talk to. He grabbed his phone, stepped outside, and called John.   
“Greg? What’s going on?”   
“Mate… sorry, you up? I—I need to talk, I don’t want to bother you though…”  
“No, I’m awake. What is it?” John’s voice was concerned.   
“What’s happening?” Sherlock asked, his deep baritone sounding muffled.   
“Oh, uh… I’m not interrupting anything am I?”   
“No no, we were just going to sleep. It’s fine. Now, are you ok?”  
Greg fought to keep it together, but the tears spilled out. “I don’t know what to do, John…” Greg wailed.   
“Do about what?”  
“This… all of this… I’ve tried to keep it together, I’ve tried to just always be there and be understanding but it’s _hard_ , and now there’s something I don’t want to just ‘be understanding’ about.”  
“Mhm, it is hard, Greg. You’ve done a wonderful job so far, you should be proud. Now has something happened to bring this on?”  
“I— I don’t know, he was like this once you left. I keep thinking, was it me, with that comment?”   
“Greg… you’re not making much sense. Slow down and walk me through it.”   
“I’d kept it all to myself, thinking it was fine. I was struggling, but it was ok. And when Mycroft noticed, I thought… great, he really cares and he can see that it’s hard on me too. I loved him for that. But—but tonight, he… and then it all… and now I’m…” Greg was sobbing too much to get the words out by the end.   
“And now you’re what, Greg? What did he do tonight?” John asked, concerned.   
“Here’s your shoes,” Sherlock mumbled.   
“No, you — you don’t have to come out.” Greg sniffled, and then tried to stop the tears, but they ran of their own accord.   
“You’re clearly distressed, Greg. It’s no trouble.”   
“Stay there. You’ve got Rosie now, don’t wake her.” Greg was more forceful than he intended.   
“You’ve got me worried, mate. Why don’t you want us there?”   
Greg closed his eyes. He was going to have to tell them — yes, them, as he was obviously on speaker phone. “Mycroft was ac-acting funny, once you left. H-he wanted me to — to fuck him,” Greg tried hard to keep his voice clear despite the crying. He didn’t miss the disgruntled noise Sherlock made. “But he wanted it to hurt. He had th-this look that unnerved me, and I w-wanted to talk to him, cause he didn’t s-seem ok. He then d-demanded, and I declined… he got angry at me, and shouted that h-he wanted the pain. I told him I wasn’t going to b-be part of his self harm, and he shut down. I tried to get him to talk, b-but he snapped, and I told him I wasn’t gonna rape him, and, and—”  
“Greg, calm down, it’s ok.” John tried to sooth Greg, but it was hard over the phone. It was sounding like this was a ‘last straw’ situation that broke the dam and everything was spilling out that had built up since Sherrinford.   
“M-my ex wife, she’d always t-tell me that, you know? That’s why it’s so hard on m-me. She’d be willing, I’d ask a lot, then l-later the next day she’d decide she was raped, and she’d t-tell me often enough. P-probably everyone else, too.”  
“Hm, ok yeah, I can understand you have some trauma with that so your reaction here is perfectly reasonable,” John said, both understanding and trying to placate the feelings taking over Greg.   
“I got angry, and so I b-bloody left him upstairs crying. I’m f-fucking scared now he’ll harm himself some other way—”  
“Listen to me, Greg, if he does then it isn’t your fault. It’s not your failure. We’ll deal with the consequences as they happen, but it is not neglect on your part for not consoling him now when he’s done that. Yes, he might be in a bad place and not registering your feelings, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t entitled to them; or still responsible for preventing him from harming himself after having tried already.” John spoke clearly and firmly, to make sure the meaning soaked in. Many times he’d dealt with patients who had lashed out against people trying to help, not understanding why their friends or partners got angry or hurt, and then hurt themselves leaving the others feeling like they’d failed.   
“Thank you,” Greg sniffled.   
“That said, I think you should at least be in the room with him. You said it yourself he wasn’t himself, so he might do something else not very like ‘himself’, and not realise it. You can stay angry all you like, but I think it’s best you at least stop harm he might regret later.”   
“Yeah… yeah you’re right. I don’t understand how this happened, though,” Greg said, his crying dying down.   
“I believe I have an idea,” Sherlock rumbled, “Whilst you were at the pub, he began to reminisce over our past and raising me. I tried to stop the conversation, but Rosie made that difficult. He may be trying to punish himself over perceived failure to raise me given the drug problems of my past. That came up a bit, for some reason. Using sex was probably just an impulse or from you talking about it before we left.”   
“Fuck,” Greg exclaimed. Why couldn’t his husband just leave his past bloody well alone when alone? That big brain of his was going to be the end of him. “Thanks. I’ll go up now; I feel calm enough.”  
“Greg, I’m going to come around tomorrow morning, ok? You can’t talk me out of it. Call me if something happens and he needs medical attention, otherwise, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” 

Greg took a deep breath and headed back inside.   
_No more unsupervised family visits._


	21. Mistakes

Greg shuffled into the bedroom. He was relieved to see that Mycroft was asleep where he had been when Greg left. He slowly got into the bed and sighed dejectedly.   
“Myc, why do you do this to yourself? Can’t you see what you’ve done now?” Greg whispered, looking upon his husband’s sleeping form in the dim light. “I can’t be there for you if you’re going to shout at me for it. I can’t be supportive and be hurt by you at the same time… you have to take a moment and realise what you’re doing. You’re not blameless because you’re suffering, you know.”   
Greg knew that Mycroft wasn’t listening; he was just practicing being able to say the words. It was incredibly difficult for him to stop and objectively say he needed some consideration. He’d shown already that he was going to just keep supporting despite how difficult it got. Greg screwed up his face and tried not to let any more tears out. He knew that this was probably one of the few situations that could have happened to make him stop and stand up for his own health as well as trying to be caring for Mycroft.   
He ran his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. “I’m still angry at you,” Greg uttered, “but I love you to pieces. It breaks my heart to think of you being hurt, by me or yourself.”   
Mycroft didn’t stir. Greg placed a kiss on his forehead. It was strange that Mycroft hadn’t woken to the touch — he was generally a light sleeper, and would wake with relatively little disturbance. Greg frowned, suddenly not being comfortable with how still his husband was.   
“Myc?” Greg stroked Mycroft’s cheek as he called out to him. There was still no response, and so Greg grabbed his shoulder and shook it.  “Mycroft?”   
Mycroft made a slight groan, but didn’t wake. Greg felt chills wash over him. Mycroft was never this asleep, not even with the sleeping pill, which meant…   
“Please tell me you didn’t,” Greg hissed as he got out of bed. He ducked into his cupboard and pulled his work back out from the floor. He rummaged about and pulled the box of temazepam out. He cursed to himself for his stupidity of leaving them in the bedroom… he normally left his bag downstairs, but had brought it up on the days Rosie was in the house. He emptied the box out into his palm, and noticed that there were three pills missing.   
“Fucking hell, Mycroft!” Greg shouted, instantly going tense. He was fuming, but he couldn’t tell at whom he was angrier. He was shaking when he grabbed the phone and called John.   
“What’d he do?” John answered quickly, and jumped right to the point.   
“He’s taken sleeping pills, fuck, I — I swear, I didn’t know he knew where I’d hidden them, and now—”  
“Greg, calm down. How many did he take?”  
“Um, three.”  
“Out of?”  
“I dunno… twenty? Why?”  
“Ok, so self harm and not a suicide attempt. What is it and what dose?”  
“Temazepam, 15mg.”  
“Right… ok, that’s not so bad, I’m pretty sure. Give me a sec,” John said, getting up and opening his laptop. “I’ll just double check for you, it’ll be quick. So you can’t wake him?”  
“No, I tried but he wouldn’t… he made groaning, but that’s all… and I … what if it’s—”  
“Greg, you have to try and focus. Mycroft is still smart when he’s compromised. If he had twenty available, and only took three, then you can assume he’s just wanting something mildly harmful. As far as I can tell, 45mg isn’t damaging. A bit worrisome, but you won’t need to take him to the hospital provided he’s still breathing fairly normally. Is he?”  
Greg watched carefully at the rise and fall of Mycroft’s chest. “I think so, I mean it’s a bit slow and inconsistent but he’s definitely breathing. Fuck, if he wasn’t… John, please tell me he’s not gonna stop breathing in the night.”  
“Not on this dose, I’d say. Still, you’ll need to keep an eye on him for about two hours, and if he doesn’t get worse then it should be fine. If you’re really concerned you can take him in now, but you’ll need to call an ambulance for a gurney. Otherwise, just monitor and call for one if his breathing slows any more. If after two hours he’s not gotten worse or if he’s improved, then I’d recommend you watch him for another two, but it doesn’t need to be as closely.”  
“Fuck… just… fuck this.” Greg clenched his teeth. He was still angry, but he couldn’t stop himself panicking. John’s professional calmness was very much appreciated. “Thanks John, I don’t know what I’d do without you, sometimes.”   
“Do you need me to come over now?”  
“It’s going to be a long night of just laying here with him, so no, it’s alright I think. Christ, it’s just… _why_. Why is this happening? It’s like the moment things are going alright, shit happens. The one time I stand up for myself and let myself be angry at him and bloody break down… I’m left having to watch over him because he’s gone and pulled this. Argh, I know he’s struggling and all but fuck, why don’t I ever get just a break for once?”  
“It’s ok to be angry, Greg… don’t try and tell yourself you have to put all that aside to look after him. You have to let him know it’s not ok to do this.”  
“But it’s not really him, is it? That’s what’s fucking balls about this… it’s the shit that’s clouded his mind.”  
“You still have to let your feelings out, Greg. Not being in a good mindset isn’t an excuse for what he’s gone and done tonight. If there’s negative consequences for it, he’ll probably be less likely to do it again.”   
“You make it sound like I’m training a damn dog,” Greg grumbled, glancing over to Mycroft. His heart tore in his chest. One part was resentful and angry, and the other was exceedingly concerned and upset. He pinched the bridge of his nose again and took some deep breaths. “It’s been a fucking shit night.”   
“Yep.”   
“I’ll let you get some sleep, yeah?”  
“I dunno if I’ll get any, actually… Sherlock’s pretty concerned,” John said, and then winced after being thumped by the consulting detective. “Ow what was that for? Erg, apparently Sherlock doesn’t want me to tell you how concerned he is. Needless to say, he’ll be up all night in all likelihood.”   
“It’s good that he cares.”  
“Yeah, I think he feels a bit responsible for it — fucking stop punching me Sherlock!”   
Greg chuckled. He felt overwhelmed by a wave of lethargy, and then shook himself to ensure he stayed awake. “I’ll leave you two to bicker. If he gets insufferable, you’re welcome to come over. We’ll have a Holmesian sleepover: lots of silent sitting in a room without the sleeping.”   
“Alright. Text me if you need some company. I’ll see you… Jesus, soon I guess?”  
“Yeah. Thanks again.” 

Greg hung up and yelled out his frustrations. Mycroft stirred almost imperceptibly at the noise, but it was reassuring all the same. Greg sighed and shuffled closer, resting his hand upon Mycroft’s chest.   
“I know you think you knew what you were doing, but let me tell you it was the wrong thing to do,” Greg said, not bothering to keep his voice down anymore. He felt bad that part of him wished Mycroft _had_ just cut himself. Then he could have just patched up the wound and gone to sleep. Greg snuggled into the blankets to get comfortable. Two hours of careful watching… the panic that resulted from thinking he’d fall asleep and Mycroft stopped breathing without him noticing kept him awake enough to focus. He nestled in close so that his ear was close to Mycroft’s mouth and his hand remained upon the freckled chest. He at least had plenty of time to decide what words he was going to have with Mycroft in the morning. 

~

Mycroft became aware of a pounding in his head amidst the blackness. He realised he was waking up; he regained the sense of his body and the feel of the bed he was on. He just wanted to groan… everything hurt. He dare not attempt to open his eyes. He couldn’t understand how all of his muscles felt sore and achey as if he’d just run a marathon instead of sleep through the night. He tried to move, but found that his body was inexplicably heavy. He could barely take deep breaths let alone lift his arm. The pain in his head was worse, and it felt like his brain had been filled with cotton wool.   
_What the hell is going on?_   
He tried to cast his mind back; quite a feat it seemed, given the thickness he had to wade through in his mind. He could remember Gregory going for drinks with John, Sherlock staying with Rosie… ah, yes. Rosie. Thinking about how he’d failed to raise Sherlock — his little book was evidence of that enough — and how he’d just fail raising his own child. And then…  
_Oh, god. What have I done?  
_ Mycroft was hit with memories of attempting to feel pain through sex, of pushing Gregory away in anger, and of taking enough temazepam to ensure he’d sleep and a little more for some punishment. He wanted to curl up in a ball, but his body was still too unresponsive to allow it. Gregory had been respectful and attempted to be supportive… and he’d snapped and shoved him out. He moaned in anguish, not caring that it made the pounding of his head worse. He managed to lift his hand to press to his head.   
“Mycroft.”   
He frowned and cracked his eyes open into slits, peering about for the source of the voice. His gaze fell onto Gregory beside him, asleep. He then looked over to his other side, towards the window, and saw his brother sitting before him on the desk chair.   
“Sherlock, what are you—”  
“Shh,” Sherlock hushed, nodding towards Greg’s sleeping form.   
Mycroft looked back at his husband through the haze of his mind and could see the man seemed utterly exhausted, as if he’d only just gotten to sleep after a stressful night. He felt guilt stab at his chest; Gregory had stayed up and watched over him.   
_That was unnecessary! I was sure not to take a dangerous amount…  
_ “Mycroft, as soon as you’re able, we should leave him to rest,” Sherlock whispered.   
Mycroft was about to ask why, but was silenced by Sherlock again. The guilt was soaking all the cotton wool in his brain and making it stick to his body… and yet, he wasn’t feeling panicked. Why wasn’t he anxious?   
_Ah, residual effects of the temazepam._

A few minutes of laying in the half-light of morning later, Mycroft attempted to slowly sit up. The world span around him and he pressed his palms into his eyes. Sherlock had reached out to steady him, likely because it looked as if he was about to fall to the floor. Mycroft couldn’t say that mightn’t have happened. Thankfully the nausea didn’t last, and he was left with just the pounding of his head and the thick blanket for his thoughts to wade through. He attempted to stand, his body still seeming to lack any energy whatsoever. He hadn’t considered these effects when taking the mild overdose… he’d just had a narrow determination to ensure he wasn’t awake anymore, and placate that demon inside him that wanted to punish himself. Sherlock helped him walk out of the room, as it felt like he was trying to fight against a current of cold water.   
“Sherlock, where are we going?” Mycroft asked once he was clear of the bedroom.   
“You should see to your ablutions first, and then we’ll head into the guest bedroom where John is. He’s asleep as well, but instructed me to take you to him once you woke.”   
The pit of Mycroft’s stomach dropped. He was about to get run through, wasn’t he? He stumbled, unable to keep track of both walking and panic in his clouded brain. Sherlock reflexively caught him.   
“You’re not very good at coming back from an overdose, are you?” Sherlock teased.   
“I haven’t had your practise, no,” Mycroft replied with a sneer. He expected Sherlock to retort, but instead his brother looked solemnly at the floor.   
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything,” Sherlock mumbled.   
“What?”   
“I said I’m sorry. For everything I put you through. I shouldn’t use it to poke fun of you now.” 

Mycroft said nothing further and used the bathroom, the one down the hall from his bedroom. He then walked with Sherlock to the guest bedroom, where John was fast asleep.   
“Shouldn’t we let him sleep?”  
“His instructions were quite clear, and I am not game to challenge him.”   
Mycroft nodded. John Watson’s fury was rather intimidating; it was even for _him_ years ago. Sherlock indicated for Mycroft to sit on the other side of the bed as he went up to John and kissed him on the forehead. It was still a little strange for Mycroft to witness physical affection from Sherlock, but given the fog gripping him, he couldn’t find it in himself to do more than just notice. He just sat, slumped over with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.   
“Hey,” Sherlock uttered as John awoke.   
“Hey. He’s here?”  
Sherlock nodded and thrust his head in his brother’s direction. He hoped that John wouldn’t be too harsh; he still felt responsible for causing the pain to a degree, and couldn’t blame his brother for being self destructive… he’d done enough of that himself, after all.   
“Mycroft,” John began, sitting up. “I know you’re feeling pretty shitty right now, but I need to talk to you.”   
Mycroft said nothing; he barely nodded. He remained as stoic as he could manage.   
“You really hurt Greg last night. I know you weren’t exactly thinking clearly, but you need to understand that you can’t do that. He’s been incredibly supportive and understanding to you through all of this, and doesn’t deserve for you to snap at him for trying to care for you. He hasn’t said anything about how hard it’s all been for him, partly because he’s just too stubborn for his own good, and partly to try and protect you from it all in the hopes you’ll improve and thus his own stresses would ease.”   
Mycroft started to shake, and couldn’t stop himself from crying. He didn’t want to show emotion. He didn’t want it to seem like he was trying to shift the focus away from Greg. He wanted to hit himself for his body betraying that intent.   
“I know you’re undoubtedly upset that we were let in on everything, but Greg had no one else to turn to. He’s going to talk to you soon about it all, and I want you to listen. He deserves that, at least. You don’t know why your actions affected him so much, and I think you should try ask him about that. The first thing more than the second thing you did, although that was pretty bad as well. He’s likely not going to be up for a while yet, since he had to spend most of the night watching you until Sherlock and I came over.”   
“I …” Mycroft couldn’t get any other words out. His voice just didn’t work. He closed his mouth and continued to look at the floor.   
“I offered to take over watching you at about five, so that he could get some sleep. I was awake anyway,” Sherlock said. Mycroft flickered his eyes up towards his brother, but said nothing. He felt even worse knowing that he’d not only hurt Gregory, but that he inconvenienced Sherlock and John as well. If it were possible, he’d shrink into himself until there was nothing left for anyone to see. He wanted to run, to keep everyone away for their own good. His body wasn’t quite up for obeying, however. The darker thoughts in his mind wanted to snap at the two men, to tell them he didn’t need watching, that he had everything under control… but the cotton wool enveloping his brain wouldn’t let it out.   
_Probably for the best, since they’d come back saying I was a danger of respiratory arrest, and I’d retort that it would be better for everyone if that happened anyway; I don’t want them thinking that of me right now. I’ve done enough damage for the last 12 hours. I need to just get a hold of myself for Gregory’s sake. That voice can stay buried in the wool.  
_ “Mycroft, do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”  
Mycroft nodded. John was being a lot softer in his scolding than he’d expected, but he was appreciative of it. The doctor reached out to touch him, supportively no doubt, but Mycroft flinched away. He managed to find his legs, and stood. He said nothing, but just shook his head and scurried out of the room as best he could. The drugs were leaving his system, he could tell, because he was getting more and more anxious. He was feeling desperate to find somewhere to hide. The reality of the previous evening was starting to soak in through the haze, and it was truly upsetting him.   
John made to get out of bed and follow him, but was stopped by Sherlock grabbing his arm.   
“No, let him go. He needs some space I think,” Sherlock said solemnly.   
“Yeah, I guess I can understand that.”   
“Lay back down and get some sleep. I’ll go check on him.”  
“You need sleep too, love.”   
“Eventually. I’ve been sleeping a lot better lately, and so have some stored up for once,” Sherlock said grinning. John nodded back at him, and settled down to rest some more. It was true: since sharing a bed with John, he’d slept a lot deeper and calmer. Judging from the lack of nightmares on John’s part, he assumed John was also benefitting from the arrangement. 

Mycroft found himself escaping to his exercise room. It made sense, since he’d often go there when feeling upset… however usually it was about his weight. He wanted to curl up on the floor in the corner, but knew that his body would not appreciate it later. His muscles were still tired and achey, and brought him down in the chair he’d moved close to the corner some time ago. He eyed the open doorway, and instantly got back up to close it. He needed to put something physical between himself and the others in the house. 


	22. Regret and Forgiveness

Sherlock put his hand on the wooden door. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say in these situations. He wanted to be there for his brother, he wanted to help… but he didn’t want to say the wrong thing and make it worse. It was hard to read the situation when he couldn’t see any facial expressions.   
“Mycroft… come out of there.”  
“No, Sherlock.”  
“Why? You’re just making this harder.” Sherlock realised it was probably a poor choice of words after he’d said it. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing, but he wanted to learn. “Sorry… I mean, it’d be easier to talk to you without a large door between us.”   
“I don’t know why you want to talk to me,” Mycroft called out. He had his hands wrapped around his middle and feet up on the chair with him. He was completely aghast with himself and the situation he’d caused. “I seem to just make everything worse.”  
“You made a mistake, brother… that’s ok, we all make them. Even you.”   
“My mistakes seem to cause more harm to others than most would believe possible.”   
Sherlock sighed and rested his forehead against the door. Mentioning mistakes was probably a bad idea — now Mycroft was thinking about Eurus again.   
_Perhaps it’s best to just go to Greg and say ‘I tried but may have possibly made everything a thousand times worse’.  
_ “I— I know this is probably something best worked out between you and Greg, but I want to help. You don’t have to hide away everything anymore, Mycroft. What’s important now is asking for forgiveness. I have plenty of experience with that, and I know Lestrade is very forgiving.”   
Mycroft sniffled, tears flowing down his cheeks. _Lestrade_.   
_Would Gregory even want to take my name anymore?  
_ “I might just be making things worse… I’ll leave you to have some time to think, ok? But do remember what I’ve said. You’ve asked for forgiveness in the past and Greg’s given it, he just needs to know you’re remorseful and that you understand how it’s hurt him.” Sherlock knew that was generally how things worked with John. He sighed and shook his head gently, and then walked away. He hoped Mycroft would hear his words. 

Greg awoke. He still felt tired, but at least a little more rested than he would have been had Sherlock not come and taken over for him. He blinked a few times before looking over to where Mycroft was, only to find him (and Sherlock) gone. He glanced over to his clock and saw that he’d been asleep for four hours, and so reasoned that Mycroft had merely woken already and was having breakfast with his brother. He sat up and groaned to himself. He wasn’t looking forward to walking into the kitchen and having that moment where he is supposed to say something. Honestly, he was scared to. Had it been any other issue, he might have just left it; but not this one. It was important to him and Mycroft needed to understand not only why it was wrong but the things in his past that made it so upsetting for him.   
“Fuck…” Greg mumbled to himself. It wasn’t directed towards anything in particular, just a general statement of the situation. He knew Mycroft was in a bad place and all, but he still felt resentment. Despite that, he was afraid of bringing it up and making the situation worse… the last thing he needed was to break Mycroft further and end up back to where they were a month ago. Not only was that bad for his husband’s health, but it also meant loading a lot more stress (and guilt) back onto his own shoulders. Gentle… he had to do it, but gently. He hoped that Mycroft had woken more himself and so was in a place to understand the points Greg wanted to make. That opened up a concerning trail of thought: if Mycroft had woken with a clear head, how would he react to the memories? His Mycroft wouldn’t ever want to hurt him, and so would probably be rather upset to remember doing so. The overdose issue was also a bit contentious; would he regret doing it and causing Greg worry? Or would he want to punish himself further?   
Greg got up out of bed swiftly following that thought. He slipped on some thin trousers and a shirt, and walked out towards the kitchen. He couldn’t hear any noises, however. The reason was soon clear: the kitchen was empty.   
“Hm. Where are they?” Greg pondered with his hands on his hips. He looked around and thought maybe they were up in the guest bedroom… for some unknown reason. He shook his head and frowned, and walked back up the stairs. He peered in, but saw just Sherlock sitting in the chair looking pensive and John sleeping in the bed.   
Sherlock looked up when he saw Greg’s head poke into the doorway. He inclined his head in acknowledgement and quietly stood to join him.   
“Good morning,” Sherlock rumbled softly.   
“Where’s Mycroft?”  
“Ah. Well, he woke up about two hours ago,” Sherlock said hesitantly.   
“Sherlock,” Greg warned.   
“Yes, well, he was struggling with the resulting strain on his body from the overdose when he woke. I took him in to see John as instructed, and then John spoke with him for a moment. He then ran into the exercise room and locked himself in.”   
“Sherlock! I told you to watch him!”   
“I did! I watched the whole thing!”   
“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Greg scolded. He sighed and growled to himself. “Why did he want to see John?”  
“He didn’t; it was John that ordered me to take him in there when he woke.”   
“Great, bloody brilliant. John’s told him off and now he’s probably in a worse state than before!” Greg knew he was shouting in the doorway where John was sleeping, but at that moment, he was hoping the doctor would wake up and hear him.   
“John didn’t say anything bad; he was actually very gentle. He basically just told Mycroft that he hurt you and needed to listen to what you have to say. Mycroft was fairly distraught over the events of last night and I believed he just needed space to sort things out. I did try to talk to him but he wouldn’t open the door for me.”   
Greg slumped and let his head drop. He rubbed his eyes with his hand. He knew Sherlock was trying his best, and he couldn’t exactly fault him for anything, but he was just upset in general. “Alright, I know you’ve tried hard. I wish you’d woken me, though.”  
“You needed sleep. You’re no good having a serious conversation if you’re tired and worn down.”   
“Fair point, I’ll give you that. I do need to think clearly so at least one of us is… I’ll go and see him. Thanks Sherlock.” 

Greg knocked on the door to the exercise room. He hoped that the worst Mycroft had done to himself was go for a run.   
“Mycroft?”  
There was no response, and so Greg knocked and called out again, thinking Mycroft might have fallen asleep.   
“Go away, Gregory,” Mycroft said and it caused chills to wash over Greg. He swallowed carefully.   
“No, Mycroft. The last time you said that to me through a door, you were about to kill yourself. Tell me right now what you’re doing.” Greg was serious, and it showed in his tone.   
Mycroft tensed in the chair. He’d not left it since getting in there, and it had made his muscles cramp up. He hissed in pain from unfurling himself, but he needed to let Gregory in. The thought that his husband was panicking over him _again_ … well, he had to stop that.   
“Gregory, it was for your wellbeing. I did not mean to cause you distress,” Mycroft said as he opened the door.   
There was a tense moment when both men stood just taking stock of the other. Greg could see the strain Mycroft was feeling through his body language and pale skin, and knew he probably had dark circles around his eyes showing his own exhaustion for Mycroft to see.  
“Why do you think hiding away from me is for my benefit?” Greg asked.   
“Because I hurt you. I don’t want to do that again and it seems best to just keep away. I—I tried to be good to you, I tried to care for you. You’ve been so wonderful to me and — and — and that’s how I treat you,” Mycroft said, breaking into tears.   
Greg couldn’t do anything but step forward and hold Mycroft. He didn’t say anything, but just held onto the back of his neck and stroked his arm softly as he sobbed.   
“I’m so sorry, Gregory… I don’t know what I was thinking… I deserve any punishment you see fit; and more, knowing you. And look at me: here I am, having wronged you, and you’re the one having to give care. I’m a monster… you’re better off away—”  
“You stop that right now, Mycroft Holmes. Yes, you have hurt me, and yes, I’m going to need to talk to you about it. But that does not make you a monster and are still deserving of my care, as I give it my my discretion. My love is unconditional, remember? It means you can make mistakes, and I can as well, and we work them out.” Greg rested his head against Mycroft’s as he spoke, continuing to rub his arm. The anger that had seethed through his insides had started fading once seeing his husband’s clear remorse.   
“Come on, I don’t want to do this in a doorway,” Greg said, trying to direct Mycroft back into the chair. He dragged the other chair close by so they were facing each other. He took a deep breath. This was going to be difficult to say. 

Greg then told Mycroft about how hard it had been for him to see the man he loved suffering so much. How he wanted to do absolutely everything he could to try and make it better, but how that meant he struggled to cope at times as well. How he didn’t say anything about it out of fear of making Mycroft feel worse, and thus compounding the issue more. Greg talked of his own problems of putting himself aside for the sake of others, and how it had been negative for his own health; how he was so appreciative of Mycroft getting forceful with him to care for himself, and being given that care regardless. Mycroft didn’t interrupt, didn’t make a noise; he just nodded silently at times as he was inundated with the information.   
Greg talked of how he’d felt when Mycroft tried to use him last night, how offended he was that it sounded that Myc didn’t seem to consider that he’d not want to cause harm to his husband. He skipped over the parts regarding thoughts of rape and his ex-wife, deciding that needed more conversation on its own. Instead, he talked of feeling hurt by the actions, and how painful it was to put his own feelings aside and try and be supportive only to be yelled at for it. He described how angry he got when Mycroft shut him out, and recounted his actions following his departure of the bedroom: the drinking, the pacing, and calling John. He thanked John profusely, letting Mycroft know how much he valued having a friend to turn to, and how impressed he was with Sherlock’s care.   
He paused for a moment, closing his eyes and steadying himself. Mycroft continued to say nothing. Greg took another deep breath and continued to talk of what happened once he’d gone back to their room. How panicked he’d been when he’d found that Mycroft had taken the pills, the phone call he had with John trying to determine if it was serious, and his feelings regarding the whole debacle. His pure anger that Mycroft had gone and done that in the first place, his pain that Myc felt the need to do it, the guilt for keeping the pills in the room without thinking, the fear that something was going to go wrong and Mycroft’s life was in danger, the frustration of having to shelf his annoyance and pain over the sex problem and instead stay up and monitor Mycroft’s vitals. He spoke of the thoughts he had when watching over Mycroft, the planning for this very conversation that had gone out the window, and how he mostly just wanted Mycroft to understand the turmoil his actions had caused. He concluded by saying how he understood Mycroft wasn’t in a stable place at the time, but how he had to be aware of it from now on to prevent things like this happening again, and that Myc did still have a responsibility to consider him. 

By the time he was done, he felt like he’d poured all of his soul out. He felt exhausted, but still tense over the reception of his long speech. Mycroft hadn’t said a word, and it was starting to be a little concerning.   
“Mycroft, please say something.”  
“I—I do not know what.”  
“Anything.”  
“I am so incredibly sorry, my dearest sweet Gregory. I understood that this has all been challenging for you but I never anticipated it to be to this extent. It is not surprising you snapped, and as utterly mortified I am that I hurt you in that way, I am partially pleased that it has resulted in you being able to tell me this. It is clear that it is something you needed to talk about for some time, and I regret not appearing to be open to receiving such information. Had the situation continued before this event, I fear that you would have broken yourself. It was clear to many that you were close to that point in the last two weeks. I am so glad that I stepped in and took some care of you; it might not be enough, but it was still something. I see there is much I still need to do to be supportive of you and please believe me when I say I do want to try. I cannot guarantee that I will always succeed, as I am aware sometimes I am not in control of myself. Despising myself for that does not alter the fact it happens.You are my everything and I want you to know how desperately I wish to make amends. Hurting you is a transgression I must atone for and do all I can to prevent occurring again. I want you to be completely open with me, Gregory… and I hope that I can still be open with you. With that in mind, I have one question that I wish you to answer for me.”   
Greg had been eyeing Mycroft carefully. He was elated Mycroft had said what he had, and found himself unsure of his own messed mix of feelings. “Anything,” Greg answered, his throat tight.   
“Why do you refer to what transpired as you raping me, when it was you that was unwilling?”   
Greg clenched his jaw. He should have known Mycroft would have noticed his omission of that part of his story, and want to know more about it. He nodded stiffly, and told Mycroft about the actions of his ex-wife, and how utterly horrified it had made him feel. He went further to explain how he’d since been struck with the same feelings whenever the topic had come up, and had excused himself from cases involving rape for that fact.   
“Gregory, I have to ask… are you aware that your actions were not rape?”  
“Yes, of course… but it’s hard, innit? If a woman decides to say I raped her, then no one is going to stop and ask for my side of the story. That’s just how it goes. Though, I couldn’t stop thinking that maybe… maybe she was just saying yes because she was afraid of what I’d do if she said no? It really got to me to be called that when it went against everything I felt about myself. It got to a point where any painful or negative sexual experiences would be labelled as ‘rape’ in my head and I would just instantly assume guilt for it. I stopped trying anything with her at all a long time before we finally got divorced. You want to know something? The fact that you were so inexperienced excited me because it meant I could constantly reassure myself that you were willing to continue, and you wouldn’t mind the talking during sex cause it sounded like I was being considerate to only for your benefit. I admit, I never really thought of this stuff when I started dating you… I felt so calm, safe, and respected that it never really became a problem. I guess that’s why it struck me so hard last night because suddenly that concept of safety was shattered and I was left with the same issues my ex created.”   
Mycroft stood and grasped Gregory in a tight hug. He wanted to just cry, but he needed to be supportive more. He just shed silent tears in that hug. “I am so unbelievably sorry for what you’ve had to go through.”   
Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s waist. “As long as you’re here and we can get through things together, it’s ok,” Greg mumbled into Mycroft’s middle. He couldn’t deny feeling that fear that Mycroft was feeling suicidal because of his guilt.   
“Always together,” Mycroft answered, “and always open about our feelings now, agreed?”   
“Agreed. No more shutting the other out either.”   
“Of course not; that was implied.”   
“Just being thorough, Myc. Now, it’s been a rough few hours for us all. I think maybe it’d be good to just get some rest now that this is sorted. Sherlock hasn’t slept, so it’d be good for him to get a few hours at least. We can all have a comforting late lunch later, since Mrs Hudson is looking after Rosie until tonight.”  
“Very wise, darling. Despite having been the one with the most sleep, I find myself inexplicably tired.”   
“That’s the pills, Myc.”   
“Oh, yes, of course. Forgive me.” Mycroft released his hold of Gregory and stepped back to pull him to his feet. He cupped his face and stared into his deep brown eyes. “Forgive me.”   
Greg nodded gently, and leaned in for a kiss. It was more of an answer he was able to convey with words; the love, the care, the need to have Mycroft there… it was all shown through that one gesture. 


	23. Attentive

The following week progressed well. Mycroft endeavoured to ask Greg how he was at least once a day, which Greg thoroughly appreciated. Myc had even gotten better at asking the question; initially asking: ‘ _might I enquire as to your emotional state_ ’ and ending up with the far more comfortable: ‘ _how are you feeling_ ’. Greg was generally more at ease with the reassurances that it was ok to talk about himself and, more importantly, that he could be honest if he wasn’t feeling ok. He noticed that Mycroft also seemed to be calmer when given the information as to how Greg was faring. They both had to agree that whilst what happened was horrible, the resulting communication was highly beneficial. Greg knew that it hadn’t been an unwillingness to communicate as such beforehand, but more their own personal issues regarding the topics at hand.   
Greg sat at the kitchen table, quietly pondering over the previous week whilst eating a piece of toast and glancing over some case files. Mycroft was making himself some tea, and one for Greg. It was a peaceful morning.   
“Gregory, might I talk to you about something?”  
Greg looked up from the papers and saw Mycroft walking over to him with the mugs in hand. “Of course, dear. Here, just let me—” he closed the manilla folder and slid it to the side, allowing space for Mycroft.   
“Thank you. Here.” Mycroft handed Gregory his mug, and took a seat. “I wanted to continue writing in my book.”   
“Oh.” Greg paused. The emotions swelling up as a result weren’t positive. “Why do you want to do that? It’s not seemed to help you.”  
“I am aware that it looks that way, however I remain confident that writing it out will help me process the events and hopefully be able to accept them in their entirety and move on.”   
Greg reached out and took Mycroft’s hand. “I just don’t want you to suffer more than you need to. I don’t want you to write it out because you think you _should_ , or because you think it’s a punishment you deserve.”   
“Your concern is touching, honestly; however I do still think it’s the right thing to do. This is not one of the times I can just leave the past in the past and not think about it. It seems to come up all the time.”  
“Yeah, I can get that,” Greg said, rubbing his eyes. “If you think this is the right way to sort it out, then I trust you.”  
“But?”  
“But I want you to do it sitting beside me. That way I can give you support while you relive it, and help if things get too much.”  
Mycroft nodded. He’d expected such a condition. “Thank you, darling.” He leaned over and pecked a kiss onto Gregory’s cheek.   
“When did you want to write it? You’re up to the flat exploding, right?”  
“Yes. I believe doing this in small increments would be best. The therapist agrees. Speaking of, I wanted to ask you something else.”   
“Mm?”  
“I wish you to see your psychologist more frequently. I understand that you didn’t get along with the psychiatrist I had arranged years ago, but I would like you to have your medication reviewed as well… perhaps your GP can do it.”  
Greg grimaced. “Um, is there a reason you want that?”   
“I would imagine the reason was clear: I care about your health and want to help you be as well as possible. If you mean specifically, then no not especially; however, I would like you to be able to talk about the problems you raised last week regarding your past. I believe it’s something that you would benefit from resolving since it obviously is still causing you upset. I don’t like knowing you have that pain hiding away and leaving it unaddressed.”  
Greg squeezed Mycroft’s hand as a quiet groan broke out of his mouth. “I saw her last week, and—”  
“I am aware of the government’s health care provisions, however I am suggesting we pay for additional private sessions again.”   
“Suggesting,” Greg said, making air quotes with a grin. Mycroft gave him a knowing smile.   
“Indeed. It’s for your own good, and I intend to maintain my stance I iterated before: I will take care of you if you like it or not.”   
“I do like it.”   
“Good, that does make it easier. Now, there’s just one more thing I wanted to discuss. I was hoping that you could take Thursday off work.”   
Greg frowned in confusion. “But… I’m already working part-time now; why do you want me to take another day off?”  
“I wish for us to have a break. I was hoping you’d be amenable to an impromptu holiday in Norway, leaving Wednesday afternoon and returning Sunday evening.”   
Greg laughed. “Of course I’m ‘amenable’ to a holiday, Myc. It’s the middle of summer though, there’s not gonna be any snow.”   
“Well, not all of the snow melts, however I was wanting a sunshine-filled holiday instead.”  
“You?” Greg chuckled. “Mycroft Holmes wanting a sunshine-filled holiday?”   
“Nordic sunshine, I remind you,” Mycroft said. He had a large smile on his face and rolled his eyes happily.   
“Alright, true. What did you have in mind?”  
“I had hoped we could spend the time in Tromsø. As it is currently the end of June, we are in the middle of their day.”  
Greg, again, frowned in confusion. He shook his head. “What? That makes no sense. Are you alright? Not having a stroke?” Greg was mostly joking.   
“Gregory, relax,” Mycroft giggled, “Tromsø is within the Arctic Circle, and as such, experiences a constant daylight from May until July. I do not anticipate there to be many tourists at this time, and so I would enjoy exploring the fjords with you by day and making love by day.” Mycroft had a cheeky grin on his face, one that he often did when making jokes. Gregory laughed and kissed him.   
“I’m in. I’m assuming by ‘explore’ you mean, take boats and helicopters instead of hiking. I can’t say I’ve ever had a constant daylight before… it’ll be fun.”   
“I hope so. I feel we both need to just get away for a while.” Mycroft looked pensive, recounting the memories of exactly _why_ they needed a romantic getaway. Gregory squeezed his hand again, and so Mycroft looked into those chocolate eyes.   
“Hey, it’s ok. It’s a great idea. Did you want to wait until after we get back to start on your book?”  
“No, I want to start today. Ideally I would like to see what I can manage for the next three days and then leave it behind when we depart.”   
“Alright,” Greg said, taking a deep breath, “that’s understandable. But I don’t want you to push yourself. No trying to get as much on the paper as possible as if the quicker you get it all down the quicker it’ll be over and resolved. It doesn’t work that way.”   
Mycroft looked a little sheepish and nodded. He had wanted to try and get as much written down as possible. He couldn’t help but feel like it was a matter of: get it all out quickly and leave it behind. Gregory was correct, however, in saying that wasn’t how coping with trauma worked. 

~

Mycroft had told Greg to stop staring. When Greg hadn’t been able to, Mycroft had thrust a book under his nose. Greg had gone and fetched his paperwork instead, deciding that if he was to be distracted with words he might as well do something productive. Greg couldn’t help but be nervous, but after about an hour of Mycroft doing nothing but sitting staring into space with his book untouched before him, he’d relaxed a bit. At least Myc was being sensible and not trying to rush it. 

The images still flowed over his eyes, even when Mycroft was aware of his surroundings. He tried hard to shut them out, to focus on just distancing himself enough to put the words down on the page, but it wasn’t as successful an endeavour as he would have liked. He took a deep breath and picked up his pen; it seemed the emotions weren’t going to fade, so he might as well try writing. In a way it was easier to write it without missing important details.   
He’d gotten through the conversation with Sherlock and John, the explosion, and was beginning the trip to Sherrinford. That was when his hand started to shake no matter how much he willed it to be still. He could feel the walls closing in around him and the air going thin. His mind was thrusting him back into memories of Sherrinford and no matter how he clawed against it, he was falling into that abyss.  
“Gregory,” Mycroft gasped, taking a ragged breath.   
Greg looked up from his papers instantly, and saw that his husband had gone fairly pale and sweaty. “Myc?”  
Mycroft made to speak, but his throat wouldn’t let the words out. It was becoming exceedingly difficult to keep in control. He was starting to feel dizzy from the battle going on in his brain. He barely registered Gregory get up and stand beside him; it was only the feel of the man’s hands pressing against his body that let him know.   
“Ok, Myc, just focus on me… that’s it. Come on, down we go,” Greg said soothingly, holding onto his husband’s head and helping him to the floor. Mycroft had looked disorientated and was swaying in his chair. Greg didn’t want him to get hurt falling. He’d brought in a pillow and the blanket in case this happened. He rested Mycroft’s head on the pillow and draped him with the blanket. “You’re alright, love. You’re safe. Shh… don’t try and talk, just breathe. In and out. No, don’t fight it, Myc… it’s going to happen and it’s easier if you just accept it and let it pass. I know you know this but you need to hear it again. It’s ok.” Greg continued to lull Mycroft as he stroked the man’shair gently. He was glad that it was noticeably helping.   
Mycroft managed to calm down once again; his body stopped shaking and his breathing returned to a normal pace. He groaned and put his face in his hands. “Why can’t I ever win this battle?”  
“Sometimes, Myc, the only way to win a fight is to walk away,” Greg uttered quietly but firmly.  
Mycroft let Gregory’s words sink in. It seemed counter-intuitive at first, but then when thought about more, it was very wise. It was essentially what he’d been told to do thus far: don’t try and control the symptoms, but instead just focus on the environment around him and let the panic fade on its own.   
“You’re doing so well, love,” Greg commented supportingly.   
“Doesn’t feel it.”  
“You are, don’t try and deny your progress because of how far you still have to go. You’ve stayed present in the moment and I think held together well, so you should take pride in that.”   
Mycroft huffed. He couldn’t deny the truth of Gregory’s words, and he felt bad for trying rebuke the man’s attempts at support. He still didn’t feel like it was good enough, though. He slowly sat up, and felt Gregory place a kiss on his forehead.   
“I think that’s enough for today, love,” Greg said. He helped Mycroft to his feet.   
“I-I agree.” Mycroft was hesitant, but his body felt weak again and wasn’t up to resisting his husband’s wishes. He wobbled and steadied himself.   
“How about you have a lay on the couch while listening to some music, and I’ll get us some lunch?”  
“What is on the menu?”  
“I dunno, whatever’s in the fridge?”   
“I doubt you could eat the entire fridge contents,” Mycroft joked. Gregory snorted at him.   
“Shush, you, or you’ll get butter sandwiches.”  
“I despise buttered bread.”  
“I know.” Greg grinned his cheeky smile, and followed into the kitchen.


	24. A Bad Day

Greg woke before the alarm and sighed. He felt terrible, and he didn’t know why. The events of yesterday had been relatively fine; Mycroft had handled the stress of writing his book well, and they’d spent the rest of the day relaxing. Myc had done some more art, and Greg had gotten outside and puttered about the garden. Greg turned off the alarm, knowing he wasn’t about to fall back asleep, and rubbed his face. His body just didn’t want to cooperate today, and it had nothing to do with the weeding. The overwhelming depression had seemed to cripple him.   
He sat up and groaned, knowing that he still had to go into work. Mycroft remained sleeping beside him, unaware of Greg getting up for work. He let his feet hit the floor and walked into the bathroom. Instead of going straight for the shower or to relieve himself, he stood in front of the mirror and sighed. He splashed some water in his face before daring to meet his own eye.   
“Why the fuck am I feeling so shit today?” He grumbled and rubbed his face. He didn’t necessarily look worse for wear aside from the sunken demeanour. It was as if just moving was a struggle, and the concept of going outside and working at his desk was insurmountably difficult. He’d had days like that aplenty in the past, back when he’d been really struggling with the depression… but it was rather out of the blue today.   
Greg got on with his preparations for the day whilst Mycroft slept, emerging from the shower to see that Mycroft still hadn’t woken. It was good, really, since the point of the pills were to keep him asleep. Greg was concerned for tomorrow when Mycroft would take his last one; the psychiatrist has said they were a short term solution and so wasn’t going to prescribe him any more of them, and Greg wasn’t convinced Mycroft was going to cope with the inevitable nightmares. He could only hope that the disturbances would be minimal. 

In the kitchen, Greg was finding it was difficult to do even the simplest things. He’d bumped into corners three times already, one of which was likely to leave a bruise; he’d almost poured boiling water over his toast, which caused him to burn his hand when the liquid splashed out of the kettle upon realising his mistake; and he’d rested his sleeve in jam. He felt tired, not necessarily sleepy, and just not himself. He picked up his plate and coffee mug to take to the table, but his hands shook and he dropped the mug.   
“Fucking hell!” Greg shouted, instinctively jumping as the shards splayed out over the kitchen floor.It was a mess. It just really wasn’t his day. He wanted to curl back up in bed and, he wasn’t too proud to admit, just cry. Instead he sat at the table with his toast and rested his head in his hands.   
“Gregory? Are you alright?”  
Greg looked up and saw Mycroft walking towards him in his dressing gown, looking concerned. His eyes glanced over the coffee-and-china mess in the kitchen, and then back to Greg.   
“Hey, Myc, sorry to have woken you,” Greg said dejectedly.   
Mycroft walked over and sat at the table, and reached out to take Gregory’s hand. His husband hadn’t affirmed he was ok. “What is it, darling?”   
“Nothing.”  
“I disagree. Is it something specific that’s bothering you?”  
“No, Myc—”  
“Gregory, you will answer me honestly.”  
“I am! There’s no fucking reason why I’m feeling terrible, alright? I just bloody am and I can’t seem to stop!”   
Mycroft was silent as Gregory snapped and looked away with flushed cheeks. Instead of arguing against him, Mycroft just stood and pulled Gregory into a hug. He ran his fingers over Gregory’s back, much like he did to him when things were tough. The contact seemed to be enough to break through the wall of pride or obligation Gregory had erected, since he started to quietly cry.   
“I don’t know why, Myc…” Greg sniffled.   
“Oh, darling, it’s ok. You know there doesn’t have to be a reason. You’ve had a lot on your plate these past few months. Well, longer than that, really. It’s perfectly fine to just have bad days… you told me that yourself not long ago.”  
“I just feel like I should be over this by now and carry on or whatever,” Greg said, letting the tears fall more freely.   
“You might, but it is unfounded. There’s no reason for you to cope well simply because I am not, or even if I am,” Mycroft uttered soothingly while running his fingers through Gregory’s silver hair. His heart lurched seeing his husband feeling so broken down. “If you—”  
“Don’t even suggest it,” Greg growled.   
“It would be in your best interests. It’s not as if we need the income.”  
“If you give me the option to not go in today, I probably won’t. But I need to. I … I just need to, Myc. Besides I need to ask about Thursday.”  
“Oh, I have already secured that day off for you.”  
“Of course you have,” Greg said, rolling his eyes. In truth, he wasn’t upset about it. Today, he was rather glad that he didn’t have to go talk to his superiors. He closed his eyes and let himself rest against Mycroft’s body a moment. He’d stay there all day if he could. He even whimpered audibly when Myc stepped away.   
“Gregory, I have to clean up this mess before it dries. I am not going far,” Mycroft hummed as he moved to get the broom.   
“I should do it.”  
“You’ll do no such thing. You have to finish getting ready for work.”  
“I am ready.”  
“You haven’t eaten your toast; that counts,” Mycroft scolded from the kitchen with a smile. He finished cleaning up the spilled coffee and discarded the shards into the bin while Greg ate. “Do you want to talk about how you feel?”  
“I… I dunno. Yeah I kinda do, but… I don’t really have time.”  
“Unfortunately you are correct. Please call me from work, darling. I wish you to talk to me about this and not just shove it away to keep doing your job.”  
“Alright. No writing in your book, Mister, either,” Greg reminded forcefully, and received a nod. He nodded in response.   
“See you tonight, my dear.”   
“See you tonight, Myc.” Greg stretched up and kissed Mycroft, trying hard not to pay attention to his stomach dropping from the emotions that threatened to spill over.   
“Gregory,” Mycroft said before Gregory could leave the room.   
“Hm?”  
Mycroft opened his hands for Greg to take, a sad smile on his face. Greg furrowed his brows in confusion, but took Mycroft’s hands anyway. His husband turned around to face the bench behind him, reaching out to grab something. He then returned his hands to Greg’s, and slipped a small item into them. Greg knew what it was instantly. The music box.   
“I love you. Keep this on you to remember that.” Mycroft tried not to sound grave, but he wanted to do _something_ to alleviate Gregory’s pain and the concern in his chest. “You may call me your Sunshine, but you are my light and I need you.”  
Greg grasped the metal music box tightly in his palm and nodded. He put it into his pocket and left, emotions still raging throughout his chest. The music box had sufficiently shaken the container that housed his feelings, but it had at least given him some positive ones as well. 

~

Greg had grumbled at everyone the moment he’d come into work. It seemed easier to just make his team reluctant to come and talk to him than have to pretend things were fine. He’d called Mycroft, and tried his hardest not to wail out loud enough to be overheard. It had helped to just be bluntly honest with his feelings and not have to worry about the higher thinking involved. No thoughts of what he should be doing to fight it, how he shouldn’t have them in the first place, guilt over hiding them… it was just statements. He was too emotional to continue with his work straight after his phone call, and so just stood leaning against the window, looking out over the street below. He could remember doing the same thing years ago, when feeling utterly depressed, contemplating how it’d make no difference if he were to end his life. He smiled softly thinking that now there would be a big difference. 

He kept the music box on his person for the day. He took it out a couple of times to rest on the desk, and he even played it once when he experienced a particularly bad wave of depression wash over him. Unfortunately, Sally had heard the noise and come to investigate. He shooed her away; or at least attempted to. She’d looked ready to give him a lecture about treating his team better, given her expression, but she’d shut her mouth after eyeing him closer. She had left quietly, and told him he should ‘call someone’ if he needed to. He grabbed the music box off the table and slid it into his right jacket pocket.   
It turned out that Mycroft called him instead. Greg had been seriously thinking about taking a break and calling his husband when his phone rang. Myc often had that mysterious way of knowing when Greg needed him… and only half the time did it seem to be from surveillance. It was nice. 

He was called out on a case for the afternoon, and he felt like his stomach was full of lead. It was as if it was physically weighing him down. The only benefit was that his sombre mood matched the tone of the crime scene — a murder of a young drug addict. It looked to be a fight gone wrong over drugs, but he wasn’t going to jump to conclusions. He didn’t like that the body mildly resembled Sherlock. He was glad that he could just stay at home tomorrow and work on the paperwork side of things. Sally had been kind and rallied everyone to finish up quickly so that they — particularly Greg — could go home at a reasonable hour. It was only thirty minutes past when he’d usually get home that they managed to leave the crime scene. Still, it was enough time for Mycroft to worry and call.   
“Gregory? Are you alright?”  
“Sorry, love… I got called out on a case and I’m just leaving the office now.”  
“That did not answer my question.”  
“I’m— I’m not doing better,” Greg mumbled quietly so he wasn’t overheard by the officers he was walking past.   
“That’s ok, darling. Seriously. I’m glad you’re on your way home, at least.”  
“So am I.”  
“Do you want to stay on the line until you’re home?”  
“No, I’ll be there soon so I think some mindless driving will be good.”  
“That is not advisable; please pay attention to the traffic around you. I can send a car instead?”  
“No, Myc,” Greg said, sighing at the concerned tone in his husband’s voice, “it was just a figure of speech. I didn’t mean I was going to drive mindlessly. See you soon, love you.” 

Greg hung up the phone fairly quickly. He just didn’t feel like talking anymore for some reason, despite Mycroft being considerate to his feelings. He got into the car and pulled out onto the road. He didn’t know why he still felt so lethargic and upset when he was headed home. He took a deep breath and pictured a nice warm shower, some fattening delicious dinner, and maybe a shoulder rub from Mycroft before cuddling up on the couch together. That sounded like the perfect cure for an emotionally taxing day. 

~

Mycroft sat at the kitchen table, rapping his fingers nervously on his knee. He’d lit candles to set a romantic mood, and had ordered in some of his husband’s favourite Indian food. He’d set up the bathroom for a relaxing bath they could share, and put the bottle of coconut oil for massages on the bedside table. It had only taken once for Mycroft to realise he despised massage oils infused with essential oils: it had left the place smelling of lavender for a week, and he’d not managed to get the aroma out of his hands for over a day. He took a deep breath. He wasn’t good at waiting. He wanted to start making Gregory feel better _now_. The alluring smell of decadent curries was enticing enough for his stomach to rumble impatiently as well.   
Half an hour passed, and Gregory still hadn’t come home. Mycroft frowned and tried to tell himself it was fine. There could have been traffic delays.   
_Maybe he’s gone to get himself some food? I should have told him that I already have some for him. He won’t be able to read his texts anyway so it looks like I’ll just have to wait and see.  
_ The minutes ticked by slowly and Mycroft felt himself getting more and more worked up. The anxiety was starting to eat away at him. He stood and started to pace around the kitchen, pausing occasionally to stare out of the window. His chest felt tight and it was a physical effort to try and breathe. He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text, just letting Gregory know that there was food waiting for him if he was standing to order something. He didn’t get a response, which was concerning as well as expected. Mycroft wasn’t sure how that was possible, but he felt it none the less.   
Another fifteen minutes went by and there was no Gregory. Mycroft knew that he would have been told had Gregory been called back to the office. Had Sherlock demanded Gregory’s presence? Surely that would have warranted a phone call as well. He called Gregory’s phone, without answer. He was getting very concerned at this point, and so called Sherlock. He didn’t think that Gregory was there, but he really needed to talk to someone.   
“Mycroft?”  
“Is Gregory there?”  
“No, why would he be?”  
“He’s not returned home yet. He should have been here twenty minutes ago.”  
“You are are paranoid, brother.”   
“Then you tell me where he is?”  
“Probably gone to get something from the shops, that’s what people do, isn’t it?”   
“I have considered that, but he won’t answer the phone, and he was having a really bad day and…” Mycroft trailed off as the emotions overtook him. He drew in a ragged breath and tried to keep a handle on it, since breaking down wasn’t going to help the situation. It did, at least, make Sherlock realise that he was actually rather upset, and thus changed his brother’s attitude.   
“Mycroft, are you alright?”  
“NO!” Mycroft snapped, since it was obvious that he wasn’t.   
“I meant it as an invitation for you to talk to me, brother. John has told me that asking if someone is alright is how one begins such a conversation.”   
“Right… well, I’m worried something’s happened.”  
“You said he was having a bad day… in what way?”  
Mycroft found it was difficult to be honest about Gregory’s emotional state. “He… um, just… from when he woke up, he wasn’t ok.”  
“I see… you fear he’s gone off the grid, like you did?”  
“No.”  
“Then what?”  
“I…” Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to say his real fears. That Gregory had gotten into a dark place and not considered consequences, or that he’d been distracted on the road…   
“Mycroft?” John asked, having taken the phone from Sherlock.   
“John.”  
“Greg’s disappeared?”  
“Perhaps… I was telling Sherlock that he should have been home some time ago, and was not having a good day.”  
“He would have told you if he needed some space…” John mused, thinking to himself.   
“Indeed. I don’t know what to do; my mind is running away from me with scenarios and all I can do to manage the resulting panic is to talk to you both.”   
“That’s fine, Mycroft. It’s good you called. Sherlock’s on the computer looking for Greg now, just to be safe. I would have thought you’d have Anthea watching him at all times and could have asked her.”  
Mycroft cursed himself. He _should_ have had Anthea watching him. There hadn’t been surveillance on Gregory since he’d moved in. Anthea was busy running the country and likely not paying attention to small things like that, and he’d not asked anyone to take over her watchful eye whilst she was taking over for him. “She is not; she is otherwise occupied. I will be sure to rectify the situation shortly.”   
Mycroft frowned when he heard some noises in the background of the line; Sherlock had found something that caused him to start shuffling about. The phone crackled, John obviously putting his hand over the receiver. The noise repeated as John released his grip, and Mycroft heard him draw in a breath as he put the phone to his ear again.   
“Mycroft… get to the hospital.”


	25. Hospital

Sherlock sat in a chair within Greg’s room, not sure what to do. Mycroft was sitting beside him, but hadn’t been himself since arriving. His brother had been in a frantic state when he and John had arrived at the hospital. Sherlock found he was still far out of his depth when it came to caring for Mycroft when he was in the midst of a nervous breakdown. Part of him still would tell him how ridiculous the situation was, and the other part was at a loss as to what to do. Mycroft had made good progress since that day in the living room when Sherlock had been confronted with undeniable evidence to his brother’s fragility; however as of last night, it seemed to have all disappeared. Mycroft had not settled until he was permitted to sit by Greg’s side; John having to explain the situation to the doctors on staff last night. John had gone to get an update on Mycroft’s condition about ten minutes ago, leaving Sherlock to sit alone and uncomfortable in the room with the unconscious DI and his dissociated brother.  
John returned to the room quietly, and Sherlock looked up at him questioningly. John shot a glance to Mycroft, whom still was yet to acknowledge anything but Greg’s form on the bed, and nodded to Sherlock.   
“He’ll be alright,” John said, standing before Sherlock. He reached out and took the man’s large hands. “Mycroft too. Once Greg wakes, he’ll probably be more responsive. He hasn’t said anything yet?”  
“No. Greg stirred whilst you were gone, and Mycroft shifted and shook for a while, but that’s about it.”  
“He’ll probably wake soon, then,” John said as he took a seat. “The doctors say that the internal bleeding was successfully stopped, so it’s just recovery for him now.”  
“Good.” Sherlock was relieved to hear that his friend would be fine. The accident hadn’t been horrific, but it had been enough to cause some serious damage. Greg had two fractured ribs, a long cut along his side, a puncture wound to the abdomen, a badly sprained knee, various cuts and bruises, and a concussion… all from the impact on his right side. Thankfully, his left side was relatively unharmed.   
“He’s going to look pretty beaten up for a while, with all the bruising.”  
“He _is_ pretty beaten up, John. It is not unsurprising for him to look it.”  
“I know you were worried, Sherlock, but really… it’s ok. It could have been a lot worse. The puncture was mostly shallow; that music box stopped the object from tearing through his—”  
“It could have been much better, too, though, couldn’t it?” Sherlock snapped, raising his voice. He didn’t mean to cause offence to John, but he was having a difficult time processing the emotions he felt. He wanted to protect his friend, and he wanted to care for his brother… Lestrade’s wellbeing was required for Mycroft’s, and and therefore was a high priority for him now. Not that it was the only reason to care for his friend; he honestly did love Lestrade like an older brother. “Sorry,” Sherlock breathed.   
“It’s alright. It’s stressful. The driver of the other car — have you heard anything new?”  
“No.”  
“Alright. Remember what we agreed, though? Let the law handle it. Don’t go off to teach him a lesson on your own.”   
“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, “I remember. There isn’t any doubt she’d be charged, anyway. We have the footage of her running the red light, and the alcohol level that was in her blood is enough to convict her anyway.” Sherlock had initially wanted to go and give that driver some karma, considering she’d escaped with barely any injuries thanks to an expensive car with top-notch safety features. After words with John, he’d just put her out of his mind and focused on his family. 

They sat together for some time further in relative silence. Sherlock talked of his progress with Eurus to John, just so that he felt like he was managing to do something right with his family. John just nodded along. He felt completely unqualified to assess what counted as ‘progress’ when it came to Eurus Holmes; but if Sherlock was saying that her playing the violin with him was a good thing, John trusted him. The quiet conversation didn’t last, however, as the door burst open and an elderly woman stood there with tears on her face.   
“Oh, my… Greggy… what’s happened to you?”   
Sherlock instantly recognised her as Greg’s mother. She had been exuberantly emotional at the wedding, and Sherlock was beginning to wonder if it was her natural state. However, to be fair, both situations warranted emotional outburst. “He was in a car accident, Mrs Lestrade,” Sherlock responded.   
“Betty, Sherlock dear. Yes, the nurses said. Is he going to be alright?”  
“Yes, he’s going to be fine after some recovery time,” John answered. “He was fairly lucky that there wasn’t anything too serious. He’ll be sore for a while but the prognosis is a full recovery.”   
“That’s a relief to hear, John… it was John, right?”   
“That’s right,” John said, surprised that Greg’s mother could remember him at all.   
“I bet you’re relieved, Mycroft,” Betty said with a smile to Mycroft, who still didn’t register anything around him. “Mycroft?”   
John grabbed Betty by the arm as she made to walk over to Mycroft. “He’s not doing so well right now either. Why don’t you, me, and Sherlock take a walk for a bit? We can have a chat on the way; this room is a bit small for all of us,” he said.   
Betty was hesitant to leave her injured son after having just arrived, but nodded. Hopefully she’d be getting some information from Doctor John that she wanted to know. She retreated back to doorway and waited for the two boys to join her, but Sherlock remained in his seat.   
“Sherlock?” John asked, tilting his head to the side.   
“I do not believe it wise to leave Mycroft on his own, should Greg wake up.”   
“He’ll be alright, Sherlock. Greg’s got the nurses coming in to check on him frequently now they know the meds are wearing off, and they’ll be able to help. He might appreciate the space.”   
Betty screwed her face in concern seeing both Sherlock and John talk about her son-in-law as if he wasn’t there; but by the look on the man’s face, he might not have been… which was the part that was the most concerning. She did smile, though, seeing John reach out his hand for Sherlock to take. Her Greg had spoken often of the tall detective and his little doctor, and she’d often hoped they’d get together. 

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked forcefully the moment they had left the room, staring intently at Betty Lestrade and ignoring John’s chiding.   
“My son is hurt, where else would I be?”  
“I don’t deny that; however you have not been present to any of his previous hospitalisations, and I wish to know why this is the exception to that pattern.”  
“Sherlock! Betty, sorry… he’s uncomfortable with emotions and so is trying to deduce and investigate because it’s familiar and detached.”   
“That’s alright, dear. If you must know, Greg hadn’t included me on his forms, the little rascal. I believe he had that horrid ex wife of his as next of kin before, and removed her after the divorce but failed to list me instead. Mycroft called me once to request he put me down as a person to contact in case of emergencies, and that Greg hadn’t listed me before but had amended that.”   
“Why would he do that? You are elderly and not capable of rendering assist—” Sherlock hissed as John elbowed him in the middle… John’s elbow unfortunately aligned with his celiac plexus.   
“It’s good that you were informed,” John stated loudly over Sherlock’s complaints. They began to walk down the hallway.   
“So what’s wrong with Mycroft? The poor boy didn’t seem right.”   
“Well… I’m not sure what to tell you about that. What has Greg told you so far?”  
“Told me about what?” Betty asked, her voice jumping pitch.   
“Nothing, then, obviously,” Sherlock muttered.   
“Right… well, it’s really up to them to give you the details but I’ll glance over it. Some stuff happened and it was a really traumatic series of events for Mycroft—”  
“Not just Mycroft,” Sherlock interjected. John scowled at him briefly but nodded.  
“No, it was pretty traumatic for all of us. Greg, Sherlock, and myself as well. We all survived, obviously, but the situation was particularly hard on Mycroft. He’s not been alright since then, and that was about two months ago now, maybe longer. Greg’s been helping him through it really well, but it’s been rough on them both,” John explained as calmly as possible.   
“Oh… that’s terrible, the poor dears.”   
“My brother suffered a mental collapse following the events; the accident has caused him to undergo another nervous breakdown and regress back to a dissociated state.” Sherlock frowned while he talked, and it was obvious the information was unsettling for him.   
“Way to be blunt, Sherlock… but yes, that’s true.” John sighed and rubbed the back of his neck while they walked. An uncomfortable Sherlock was a tactless Sherlock.   
“I see. How awful. I don’t understand why Greg didn’t call me.”  
“He probably was preoccupied with everything, Betty… don’t take it personally. He’s gone through a lot with this; he’s been wonderfully supportive for Mycroft but it’s been a battle to keep that depression that took over a few years ago at bay.”   
Betty nodded. She’d been distraught when she’d heard of her son’s attempted suicide, and upset that she was hearing about it a year after the event; but, she’d managed to put that behind her and understand at least Greg wasn’t intentionally keeping her out. Still, she wanted to be there when she could. “I hope he’s at least getting help.”  
Before John could answer, the three of them stopped dead in their tracks after hearing a loud shout, followed by more frantic yelling and a flurry of movement ahead to Greg’s room. Betty gave him a look that said ‘go’, and so John nodded and sprinted back to the small hospital room with Sherlock on his heels. 

“What’s happening?” John asked as he slid into the crowded room. There was a doctor standing over Greg’s bed, two nurses standing on the other side, and Mycroft. Greg had woken and was trying to see what the commotion was, but clearly was still too drugged to be able to tell what was happening properly. Mycroft was on the floor in the corner, curled tightly into a ball, shaking. The two nurses were hovering over him, trying to get closer, but he’d scream at them when they tried. The doctor was shouting instructions to get him out of the room, to sedate him, but the nurses didn’t seem too keen on causing him more distress by approaching him without at least having the sedative that was called for.   
“Sir, you have to leave,” the doctor said to John.   
John had jumped directly into damage-control mode, and shook his head firmly. “No. I’m Doctor John Watson. I am assisting the care of Mycroft Holmes,” he said in his military tone, enough to make the doctor standing by Greg to concede to his presence. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. “You two, back off. He has post traumatic stress and you’re compounding it,” John instructed to the two nurses. A third nurse came in and handed a syringe to the doctor. She took it from him, but at least didn’t move to use it immediately. John nodded to her and started to approach Mycroft slowly.   
“John?”   
John looked up and saw Greg looking at him, confused and disorientated. “Hey, mate. It’s ok, you’re alright. You’ve had an accident and Mycroft’s not coping with it,” John explained calmly. Greg seemed to understand and nodded to him, laying back on the bed. John returned his attention to Mycroft, glad that Greg was so understanding even now. “Mycroft?”  
“No, don’t touch me, please…” Mycroft whimpered.   
John squatted down before Mycroft, his hands up in submission. “It’s John. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe here, ok? Greg’s alright, it wasn’t Eurus… it was just a car accident. He’s going to be fine, yeah? Do you understand, Mycroft?”   
“Greg,” Mycroft breathed, but didn’t register much else.   
“Yes, Greg’s here. Why don’t you come up here and see? He’s awake and wants to see you,” John coaxed, his tone gentle. Mycroft turned his head to look at John. He could see confusion and terror in those eyes. He wasn’t sure what was going on in Mycroft’s head, but it wasn’t good. He heard the doctor request another room for Mycroft, and one of the two remaining nurses left to see if it could be accommodated.   
“Myc?” Greg asked, his voice hoarse and timid.   
It was enough to get Mycroft to look up and around at his surroundings, and John could see some more recognition in his eyes. He slowly reached out a hand for Mycroft to take. “Let me help you, Mycroft.” 

The world started to crash back onto Mycroft. He’d been back in Sherrinford, except somehow… Gregory had been there this time. Eurus had hurt him. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, not understanding how the visions could change like that. He took a deep breath and tried to release it slowly. The awareness that there were other people around him, watching, was crushing his chest and soaking panic into his body. He vaguely recognised that someone had tried to grab him, but it had been Eurus’ hand and he’d tried to flee but there had just been the corner of the cell and Eurus approaching…  
“Mycroft, listen to me. You’re doing well, just focus on my voice,” John said, seeing Mycroft start to hyperventilate and drift away again.   
“Greg,” Mycroft uttered again. He needed to focus; he needed to be there for Gregory. He did his best to breathe slowly. He was in a hospital and Gregory was injured; he couldn’t break down now, he was needed. Mycroft blinked as a new feeling of determination overwhelmed him. He was _needed_. He actually had to be ok and stand above everything to be there for Gregory. The feeling washed over him and pushed the anxiety away as it went. His mind felt a lot clearer; not fine, but clearer at least. His body was exhausted and shaky, but he could feel it again. Moving was an incredible effort, yet he managed to reach out a shaky hand and take John’s that was still proffered. Gregory not only needed him alive, and needed his love, but he needed him to be coping right now. Mycroft was determined to give that to him.   
John helped Mycroft up into a chair. He raised his hand up to the doctor to indicate that she didn’t need to administer the sedative. Mycroft was gripping his hand fairly firmly, but he was still very shaky. He helped slide the chair closer to the bed. Greg had smiled and reached his good arm out for Mycroft to take his hand.   
“Hey there, gorgeous,” Greg said softly.   
“Gregory,” Mycroft spoke, grasping his husband’s hand. “I’m so sorry—”  
“Hey, no,” Greg interjected, but winced before he could continue.   
“You’re in pain.” Mycroft’s attention snapped clearly onto Gregory’s body, and felt a surge of protective instinct flow through his body. “Give him more pain medication,” Mycroft addressed the doctor still standing on the other side of the bed.   
“No, I’m sorry,” she answered, and turned her attention way from Mycroft. “Mr Lestrade? I’m Dr Lake, and I will be monitoring your health while you’re here. I understand it’s painful right now but that’s the unfortunate side effect of being hit by a car, I’m afraid.”   
Mycroft glared at the woman but didn’t argue. His surge of energy faded once more and he slumped forward. He could feel the sting in his eyes and the lump in his throat threatening a collapse into tears.   
“Do you remember what happened, Mr Lestrade?”   
“Uh,” Greg vocalised, and tried hard to cast his mind back through the haze and pain. The memory came in a sudden flash. “Got T-boned by an idiot running a red. Gah… breathing hurts, doc.”   
“Your right side has suffered damage from the impact. Two broken ribs will keep you sore for a while, I’m afraid, but at least there were no complications. You have a puncture wound in your abdomen, but it was luckily—”   
“Maybe tell him the rest a bit later, doctor. I think it’d be a good idea to give him and Mycroft some space for a minute,” John said when he saw that Greg closed his eyes and grimaced. Dr Lake seemed hesitant, but agreed. She, along with Sherlock and Betty (who had appeared at the door and stayed there while John was on the floor with Mycroft), left to give the couple a few private moments. 

The minute they were alone, Mycroft broke into tears. “I’m so sorry Gregory, I should have sent a car anyway.”  
“Shh, Myc, this isn’t your fault,” Greg said quietly.   
“I knew you weren’t alright, and you would have seen the lunatic before entering the intersection normally,” Mycroft sobbed, gripping Gregory’s hand.   
“Maybe, but that still doesn’t make it your fault, love,” Greg cooed, rubbing his thumb over Mycroft’s hand. “It’s possible I would have noticed if I wasn’t so overwhelmed with crap, but I might not have just as easily.”   
“You could have _died_!” Mycroft wailed.   
Greg flinched at the volume, his head still pounding. He tried to shift to comfort his husband, but was met with a strong stabbing of pain that kept him exactly where he was. “But I didn’t, Myc… I’m fine, relatively speaking. I’ll be back on my feet in no time.”   
“I couldn’t survive without you, Greg.”  
“Hey now, don’t think like that. Is that why you reacted so bad when I woke up? I mean it’s all hazy, but—”  
“No. I was not entirely aware of my surroundings since arriving here, but that was not why I — er, broke — when you regained consciousness. You stirring, groaning in pain… it shot me back to Sherrinford, Greg. This time you were there, and you’d been hurt, and I could see you there before me but Eurus was dragging me away from you. I screamed at her, and escaped her grip… I-I had to get to you. But she… she was advancing on me and I was in the cell and had nowhere to go—”  
“It’s ok, love,” Greg said, despairing at the anguish in Mycroft’s eyes.  
“The flashbacks have never been altered reality before, Greg… it’s left me unsettled. But it doesn’t matter; all that matters to me is that you are safe and well. I cannot tell you how relieved I am that you are awake.”  
“It matters to me,” Greg commented, but groaned promptly afterwards. “But yeah, maybe for now, we just try and focus on getting me to a manageable pain level.”   
“I will get you everything you need to help you heal, darling. I promise.”  
“I know you will, I never doubted that.”   
Mycroft smiled at Gregory, and gathered the strength to stand and kiss him. He was wobbly on his feet sitting back down, but it was worth it. As embarrassed as he was that there had been witnesses to his episode, he was glad that it resulted in this feeling: the determination to cope in order to help Gregory. 

“We should let the others in. Your mother was anxious to see you.”  
“Mum’s here?”  
“Yes, she was contacted by the hospital. We put her on our records as an emergency contact, remember?”  
“Ah, yeah, so we did. She’s going to be fawning all over me…”  
“You deserve as such. Now, I’ll go and get them,” Mycroft said, and stood. He swayed and shook, but was determined to not let it get to him.   
“Myc, sit down. Your body isn’t recovered yet. I know from your other flashbacks that it leaves you totally drained, so get back in the chair bef—”   
Mycroft dropped to the ground halfway to the door, midway through Greg’s instructions.   
“—ore you fall over,” Greg ended dejectedly. “Taking care of yourself isn’t being selfish, you stubborn git. Just because I’m injured doesn’t mean you can’t need help.”   
“Perhaps you are correct on this occasion,” Mycroft groaned, sitting himself up. He hated that his body was not as invigorated as his mind to be supportive to his husband.   
“Are you hurt?”  
“No; forget about it, dear.” Mycroft sighed as he tried to stand up. He was lying, and he was sure Gregory could tell, but at least nothing further was said. Self hatred flushed anew through his body as the party from outside the room rejoined them (having been summoned by Gregory’s call button), seeing Mycroft sitting on the floor leaning against the foot of Gregory’s bed. Sherlock was the one to help him to his feet, without word, and into a chair. He shot a thankful glance his brother’s way.   
“Ok, this has been quite the excitement for my patient upon waking. He needs rest, and lots of it. Mr Holmes, Dr Watson has convinced me not to admit you despite the incident I witnessed. However, you are to go with him and his partner back home and rest yourself. I have been assured that you will not have a problem with these instructions lest you be returned here. We will contact you if there are any developments; and barring extreme circumstance, you are not to visit again until tomorrow afternoon. Am I clear?” Dr Lake instructed.   
Mycroft flushed red, and just nodded into his chest. He didn’t want to leave Gregory’s side, but he had to admit that if he was going to be a stressor on his husband’s mind inhibiting rest, then it was better to leave him in the doctor’s hands for the time being. “Home?” Mycroft asked, suddenly filled with a dread of being there alone.   
“Back to Baker Street. You’re going to spend the day with us,” Sherlock announced. There was affection in his tone of voice.  
“Ah, very well.” 

With some assistance from Sherlock to stand and walk initially, Mycroft bid his farewells to Gregory, promising to return as soon as permitted. They shared a deep kiss, and Mycroft nuzzled the man’s bristly cheek for a moment before giving a final quick kiss. Betty was permitted to stay for a few moments extra, while Mycroft took his time leaving the hospital. Apparently John had extended an invitation for Betty Lestrade to spend the day with Mrs Hudson, and Mycroft had to admire the man’s ingenuity. Mrs Hudson was going to be most pleased to have another friend with whom to chatter with over tea. And so, all four of them rode in the taxi back to Baker Street. 


	26. Going Back

Mycroft held onto Rosie closely. He felt calmer having the small body slumbering against his chest. He didn’t like having to keep away from Gregory, but he would obey the directions given to him. In truth, it was nice to not be alone. Sherlock had been exceedingly welcoming; he’d offered to give him tea and biscuits on numerous occasions. Mycroft couldn’t help but feel warm from the closeness with Sherlock that he’d all but lost hope of ever achieving. He couldn’t tell exactly why it was such a nice feeling to be so included in the lives of his family outside of his husband, but he didn’t question it.   
Rosie had proven to be a wonderful distraction. Mycroft had played with her for hours, enjoying being able to keep part of his mind away from the present and causing no offence. Rosie loved the mindless games, and Mycroft loved that he could just sit and switch off for a while. He noticed that John and Sherlock were rather relieved to be exonerated of their baby-watching duties for the day. They disappeared completely for over an hour… but Mycroft was more pleased for the space than disgruntled by what they were likely occupying themselves doing.   
It was nearing eight in the evening, and Mycroft was starting to worry about overstaying his welcome. He didn’t want to go back to the house, alone, with Gregory still in the hospital. He didn’t want to impose upon his brother unduly, either. Instead of saying anything, he’d sat on the couch with the sleeping Rosie as the anxiety slowly built up until his heart was pounding uncomfortably. It was a wonder that the child was still sleeping, Mycroft thought.   
“There’s fresh sheets on the upstairs bed for you, Mycroft,” John said as he walked into the lounge with three mugs. He passed one to Sherlock and then handed one to Mycroft.   
“It would not be an imposition?”  
“Pfft,” Sherlock snorted. “Brother, if it were, why would we offer?”   
“While some families would offer despite it being an imposition, I think you know from experience that this one would definitely not,” John said with a grin, seating himself in his chair and giving Sherlock a gentle shove.   
“You have a point, Doctor Watson.”  
“John.”  
“Right, thank you,” Mycroft spoke sheepishly. It was still strange to think of the good doctor as family, despite Sherlock’s proclamation as such before they even engaged in a romantic relationship.   
“There is something I have been meaning to discuss with you, Mycroft. I had believed it best done after your brief holiday, however since that is no longer proceeding, I see no reason to delay.” Sherlock’s tone was tentative, which made Mycroft worry. “I would have preferred Lestrade present but it is better not to stress him at the moment. John will have to suffice.”  
“What are you talking about, Sherlock?” Mycroft snapped, more from worry than annoyance.   
“Father has been speaking to myself and to Mummy. She is still upset with you, and Greg, however has been convinced that you are still a member of the family. According to Father, she is willing to attempt to, in her words, ‘bridge the chasm you viciously tore’.”   
Mycroft stilled hearing the words, but managed to remain unmoving and process the information. It was clear that his mother still was not agreeable to the concept that Mycroft was suffering, and that she had done wrong in his life. He hated that he felt so hopeful and excited at the chance to ameliorate his position. Gregory had been clear that he did not need her approval or care, as she was abhorrently neglectful at providing it when it was needed; and Mycroft had Gregory now instead giving a surplus of both. He knew that if his husband was here, Sherlock would be currently being told in colourful terms just where Gregory was going to tear that ‘chasm’ in Violet Holmes.   
“Before you say anything, I must inform you that she expects recompense. You are to atone for your deception by presenting Eurus to her and Father. It is, unfortunately, an obligatory condition to regain acceptance… you must be, as ordered, to ‘be a part of the family as a whole’,” Sherlock said hesitantly. He was not happy that such a condition was placed upon Mycroft, nor that he had to bring the topic up at all. Their parents were being rather insistent.   
Mycroft knew what the request meant. It was Mummy’s way to prove to everyone that he was actually fine. If he could return to Sherrinford, then he obviously didn’t have emotional problems regarding the place. It was exactly the manipulative extortion he’d come to expect from his mother. Still, he found that getting into her good graces would be ultimately beneficial. If having to attend a meeting of the entire family, in Eurus’ cell, was what it took… then perhaps that’s what should be done. It was undoubtedly going to be difficult, but Mycroft found himself hoping that he could do it once, please his mother, and then move on entirely. Put it all behind him. If he did not comply with his mother’s wishes, she would hold this over his head until she died. He just wanted to be able to step away from it all. Gregory would have ranted and raved at the ridiculousness of the demands, and have attempted to convince him that he didn’t need contact with his parents. He would have had a point. However, Gregory was _not_ there, and Mycroft couldn’t deny the desire to placate his parents enough to move beyond this issue.   
“Mycroft?” John asked, concerned. Mycroft hadn’t moved or spoken since Sherlock started talking.   
“… I agree,” Mycroft uttered breathily.   
“You… you what?”  
“I agree, Sherlock. Don’t make me repeat myself again.”   
“But—”  
“Yes, I am aware of the difficulties the situation presents,” Mycroft grunted with resentment, directed towards himself instead of his brother.   
“Mycroft, given what happened today, I have to advise strongly against this decision,” John said as professionally as possible.   
“There was not a time frame indicated. I have sufficient time to acclimatise myself for a single visit. The benefit to complying to their wishes outweighs the potential harm.”   
“I believe your husband would argue,” John commented with a frown.   
“You would be correct. I will brace myself for the coming argument; however, I am going to proceed. I wish for this matter to be resolved and put in the past. Sherlock will be able to attest to the nature of our parents’ thinking: that if I denied, this matter would forever be held as resentment against me. If I agree to placate them, they will be contented with my efforts and leave the matter alone.”   
John looked over to Sherlock, who nodded. It was terrible that Mycroft felt he had to put himself through hell _again_ for the benefit of family, and that the Holmes parents would keep Mycroft’s actions over his head like that fully aware of the pain it caused him. “You could traumatise yourself further, Mycroft… that’ll hurt you and Greg.”   
Mycroft frowned as John’s words stabbed him in the chest. He was correct: electing to go back to Sherrinford to appease his parents would indeed upset Gregory, and if it turned out that he couldn’t cope with it and regressed back to the state he was in immediately after Eurus’ torment, then Gregory would be undeniably hurt. Having to care for him _again_ , having to put himself aside all over again because of his husband’s idiotic decision… it was not a pleasant thought. But there was a desperation in his soul to just fight hard, have this last battle and be able to walk away forever.   
“We’ll help,” Sherlock stated.   
“We will?”  
“Of course we will, John… that’s what families do: help each other.”   
“Yes, of course, but I was more surprised that you are allowing this to go ahead,” John said hesitantly, looking between Mycroft’s face full of gratitude and pride, and Sherlock’s determined scowl.  
“I understand Mycroft’s desire to have this matter settled.”   
“Alright,” John said with a big sigh, “but Greg is not going to be pleased. Hell, he might point blank refuse to let you go. I wouldn’t put it past him to try detain you if he had to.” John was impressed with Mycroft’s ability to handle talking about Sherrinford, given how the last conversation of the topic that he’d been present for had gone.   
“Then perhaps it is best to go whilst he is unable to put up a fight,” Mycroft suggested. He knew that it was taking advantage of his husband’s weakened state, and he should in no way be trying to make better the horrid situation of Gregory being in car accident, but he couldn’t deny how much easier it would be to go for a brief visit whilst Gregory was incapacitated. Unfortunately, that also left him with little time to prepare.   
“A bit sly of you, brother, but I agree.” Sherlock gave him a cheeky grin of approval. “If that is the case, we have work to do. You will remain here whilst Lestrade is in hospital.”  
“I will require an item from home.”  
“I’ll take you to get some things, Mycroft. We don’t have any spare clothes for you,” John said, rising out of the chair and approaching Mycroft. He took the sleeping Rosie away and handed her to Sherlock, who took her graciously and with pride. John let his eye linger slightly at the fond sight.   
“Thank you for… everything.” Mycroft was aware he wasn’t being very specific, but he didn’t feel the need to hide behind a masquerade of large words. This was family, after all. He smiled warmly. John gave Sherlock a brief kiss before leaving the apartment, which Mycroft adored. He was so happy for his little brother, and it undoubtedly showed on his face. 

~

Mycroft had made progress. He’d had an awkward conversation with Sherlock and John regarding what could arise following his writing in his book; well, it really had only been awkward for Mycroft. John and Sherlock had been overwhelmingly supportive, and attentive to Mycroft’s state of being whilst he wrote. It had been difficult, but the the new-found determination to be fine and put the issue behind him was driving him forward. Mycroft had to wonder if it was all just adrenalin surging through him, and the collapse would merely be delayed not avoided. But, as it hadn’t happened yet, Mycroft counted it as progress.   
He’d filled in the preparations before leaving for Sherrinford, dressing up as an old man, taking over from the governor, and the moment he realised that the governor was compromised. At that point, he’d consciously stopped. He could feel himself weakening and threatening to fall apart, and so had stepped away. He was able to see Gregory in an hour, and wanted to be in as good a shape as possible for the visit. He was vacillant regarding disclosing his intention to visit Sherrinford. Gregory would be upset, so much so that it may hinder his recuperation. On the other hand, going without letting his husband know would result in a much angrier upset directed towards him. 

Seeing the loving smile on Gregory’s face upon his entry to the room solidified his resolve: there was no way he could keep anything from this wonderful man. His chest tightened as he approached the bed, knowing there was a difficult conversation ahead. He tried not to let it show in his face, but his husband could see right though it.   
“I’m ok, love… really.”  
“I am elated and gratified that you are doing well, darling,” Mycroft said softly. He took a seat in the chair he’d left beside the bed yesterday. “How are you feeling?”  
“I’m sore, but alright,” Greg said brightly. Mycroft looked a little worse for wear himself, and Greg wanted to alleviate that worry undoubtedly plaguing him regarding his condition. “What have you been up to at Baker Street?”  
“I have spent much time playing with Rosie, actually. She is becoming quite the energetic child, however does not require much mental faculty for occupying her time.”   
“Haven’t been able to focus?”  
“Not at first, no. Other things dominated my thought processes today, however, and it was nice to have a distraction with less thinking involved.”  
“Oh? What things?”  
“You, of course, but also Sherrinford. I have been writing in my book,” Mycroft said with a tentative sigh.   
“Why? I thought you promised you’d only do so with me there,” Greg chided, but remained curious.   
“You are not in a condition to be bothered by my inability to cope. I explained the situation to Sherlock and John, and they were most gracious in their reactions. They assisted me.”   
“Firstly, dear, I’m always in a condition to be bothered by you, so don’t you think otherwise. Secondly, I’m proud of you. That would have taken a lot of courage for you to be open like that to them.”   
“I appreciate your saying so,” Mycroft said, and prepared himself to reveal his intentions. “On that note, then, there is something I must discuss with you. Before I start, I need to iterate that I have already made my decision, and this is merely advisory as I value your inclusion.”   
“Ok, what is it? You’re using your big words again Myc, which means it’s something difficult. Given you’ve said you’ve made the decision without me, you’re anticipating I won’t agree with it.”  
Mycroft had to smile at his husband’s ingenuity. “Quite,” he said. “Not because I don’t want your input, darling, but because it is something that will cause you stress.”   
“Mycroft,” Greg warned, trying to put and end to his insides churning uncomfortably.   
“I am going back to Sherrinford.”  
“Haha, alright you’ve made me chuckle, now tell me what’s on your mind.”  
“I have.”  
“What?” Greg’s stomach dropped as he looked at Mycroft incredulously. The man was sunken into himself, and looked at him with a pleading, yet serious, expression. “No,” he uttered.  
“Unfortunately, yes.”  
“No,” Greg repeated with more force. “Why? Just… why? Why on Earth…?”  
“It is the condition set for me by my mother as penance for inclusion in the family,” Mycroft spoke cautiously.   
“Your mother can go to hell, Mycroft. I’m not letting you set foot back there.”   
“Darling, whilst I appreciate your protectiveness over me, you are rather incapable of enforcing your intent.”   
“Shove it, Myc. I’m not fucking letting you go torture yourself to please that monster!” Greg yelled, and then moaned loudly from the pain in his chest.   
“Gregory please,” Mycroft pleaded, “calm down. I really don’t want to cause you pain.”   
“Fuck my pain!” Greg snapped again, wincing. “You are my husband and I will not allow you to willingly walk into a torture chamber. I’ll put you under psychiatric arrest if I have to.”   
“Dearest, you are incapable of doing so at the moment, so please calm down and listen to me.”   
Greg snorted and huffed, but he nodded curtly. Mycroft looked pained as he drew a breath to prepare for his explanation.   
“You would know more than anyone how much I wish to put this whole issue in the past,” Mycroft began. He a nod as an invitation to continue. “My mother will not let this situation go until I acquiesce to her demands. My choice at this time is to either obey, present Eurus to her and Father with Sherlock as to indicate my willingness to be a part of the whole family; or, decline, and have her mention it every time I interact with her. Father has managed to keep her from removing me from the estate, and subsequently the the family, however my denial to attend Sherrinford would be viewed as disinclination to remain as such. I-I have to put this behind me, Greg. I need to stand on my own to give you space to breathe, so that we might have a happy future together.”   
Greg frowned. Mycroft was right about his parents’ attitudes, and the decision was indeed a difficult one. His husband desperately wanted to move on from this trauma in his life and start anew — which Greg fully supported, and thus Greg was finding himself stuck between continuing his support for that outcome and preventing further harm to befall the love of his life. He considered that Mycroft was able to come back from the initial trauma with some benefit to his overall health, and so theoretically he could do so again. He would not get a second chance to placate his parents. The fact he wanted to do this predominantly for  _him_...  
“Gregory… please, I know I said I did not require your permission, but I really desire your support. I don’t think I could do this without you, and I will beg for your kindness following the visit should I not manage well,” Mycroft said, his voice laden with emotion.   
Greg closed his eyes and acknowledged the cry for help he was getting. A request for support, for understanding, and for forgiveness for putting him in that position of caregiver once again. He nodded imperceptibly, and reached out his good hand. “Mycroft, my dearest, you never, ever, need to beg for my kindness.”   
Mycroft couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, and took his husband’s hand and held it against his wet cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered.   
“Unconditional, remember? I know you need to do this, and I will be there for you when you have done it. I won’t demand to attend because I know that will cause you further pain. I have, and always will, wait for you to come home and take care of you. I made you that promise at our wedding, and I will live and die by those words, at your side. I only want what’s best for you, my love.”   
“I don’t deserve you,” Mycroft uttered amidst his tears. “I love you with all my being but that is not enough retribution for what you give to me.”  
“Hey now, don’t talk like that. You, Mycroft Holmes, are worthy of love and care. You don’t have to give me anything to thank me for it, remember? You underestimate how valued you are to me. I know for a fact you would move the Earth for me, love, and you’re one of the few who actually could. That is worth more than I can say; to be loved that devotedly, to be appreciated, I—” Greg found himself unable to continue with the lump in his throat closing his airway. He swallowed and took a deep breath. He couldn’t cry now… his chest hurt too much for that. He squeezed Mycroft’s hand, and tugged him closer for a kiss.   
“I will have to attend whilst you are still here, my love,” Mycroft said with regret. He no longer needed his husband incapacitated to avoid detainment, but it would give a viable excuse to his mother for Gregory’s failed attendance, and for him to be emotional. Not that he didn’t have reason to, but his mother obviously didn’t count emotional trauma from Eurus as good enough to suffer enough to display discomfort. His husband in hospital following a car accident would, however.   
“Why? I won’t be able to take care of you.”  
“Because my mother would accept and explanation of my emotional instability to be resulting from your accident, but not for the emotional trauma of merely being there.”   
“I don’t like it, but I will let you do what you need to. It might be a good thing. You’re out of sleeping pills but I think the doctors would let you have some if you were to share a room with me for a couple of days.”   
“I would not need to—”  
“Before you finish that lie, I’ll tell you that last time you definitely needed to and I would likely want you in a safe environment all night anyway. So, really, it’s just convenient that I can stay in the room with you.”   
Mycroft opened his mouth to argue, but then remembered to what Gregory was referring. He shut it again promptly and nodded his agreement. He wouldn’t try and make that memory any worse for his husband. “I shall have it arranged,” he said hesitantly. It was all suddenly becoming intensely real.   
“There’s one more thing,” Greg said with a smile. “Reach into the top drawer there.”  
Mycroft gave Gregory a curious look, and then obliged. He withdrew a clear medical waste bag from the drawer, and frowned at the contents.   
“Is this—?”   
“Yep,” Greg said, “our music box.”  
“Why?”  
“You gave it to me to take to work remember? I’d played it on my desk when feeling particularly down. Sally caught me and I shoved it into my jacket pocket. According to the doctor, that there saved my life.”  
“What?” Mycroft asked incredulously. He looked down at the bloodied music box in his hand.   
“Apparently, whatever debris that wanted to run me through hit the music box first and was deflected. I only got a light stabbing from whatever it was, and the pattern of those notes buried into my skin, instead of potentially being killed.”  
“So…” Mycroft vocalised, unable to believe the sheer coincidence.   
“So you did save my life, Myc. I don’t know what drew me to buy it, but that little thing has helped me save your life, and then you save mine in return. I know I’ve said the universe is out to get us, but I think we can agree that it definitely is not lazy.”   
Mycroft grinned, and clutched the music box within the bag in his palm. “It does seem to have a long intricate plan in place for us, doesn’t it, darling?”   
“Hehe, yeah,” Greg chuckled. “But at least it seems to want to keep us both alive in it for now. I want you to take it with you to Sherrinford, Sunshine. I feel better knowing you’re going there with our good luck charm from the universe.”   
“I shall have the blood cleaned off it first, I believe.” Mycroft smiled and kissed Gregory.   
“Probably for the best.”


	27. Winning

Mycroft sat in the back of his car, tense. Sherlock and John had just gotten in and they were headed for the helicopter. He hadn’t said anything to them upon joining him; he didn’t trust his voice to be as level as he would have liked. They would have been understanding, he knew, but he still felt embarrassed.   
“It’ll be ok, Mycroft,” Sherlock said quietly, placing his hand on Mycroft’s arm.   
“I dearly hope so,” Mycroft answered, nodding stiffly. He appreciated the effort Sherlock was making. He gave a smile and looked his brother over, noting the violin case at his feet and John’s hand entwined in his fingers.   
“It’ll just be a few hours. Just a few hours and it’ll be over. You can leave any time you need to as well, remember — you’re not trapped, Mycroft,” John said in an attempt to sooth the elder Holmes brother.   
“That is indeed a comfort, thank you, John. However the impending meeting of my parents is just as terrible as returning to Eurus.”  
“Really?” John didn’t mean to sound so incredulous. He received a raised eyebrow from Mycroft.  
“It may not seem to carry the same dangers to the general populace, however emotionally it will be just as confronting to encounter my parents. They, essentially, were like the captors for my own prison of sorts for my childhood,” Mycroft said with an air of distant pain. John merely nodded at him. Sherlock winced slightly, and took a deep breath. He knew it wasn’t an easy task for either John or Sherlock to go back to Sherrinford, but at least Sherlock had been going semi-frequently thus far and was more used to it. John hadn’t been, and Mycroft could see the tension in the man’s body. He’d adopted his military posture, one Mycroft had seen on numerous times wherein the doctor was adamant on maintaining control of his emotions for the situation. 

As they neared the meeting point, Mycroft’s heart sped up exponentially. He was desperately trying not to devolve into a panic attack in the car. He tried to hide his body shaking, but it was becoming an undeniable occurrence to the other members of the car. They arrived at the destination, and he was so caught up in his mind that he barely registered John pulling Sherlock down and whispering in his ear. He didn’t know what was said, but suddenly John was shuffling over the top of Sherlock, and his brother slid along the leather to claim the door seat.   
“Mycroft,” John said slowly. Mycroft darted his attention to him questioningly. “Sherlock’s going to get out and greet your parents first. I think this will give you a bit of time to re-centre, yeah?”   
Mycroft nodded, unable to speak for he was afraid he’d gasp in a large lungful of air if he permitted his mouth to open. He felt unwell and dizzy, as if he wasn’t getting enough oxygen despite knowing he was. John had grasped his knee gently; Mycroft didn’t object, as the sensation was helping him stay grounded.   
“Just focus on taking slow deep breaths for me. You have your good luck charm from Greg?”   
“Yes,” Mycroft breathed. He had he music box in his breast pocket. He didn’t care if it stuck out funny. It was comforting to be reminded of Gregory at all times.   
“Good, good.” John nodded and smiled. He was impressed with how well Mycroft was managing.It was obvious that he wasn’t alright; he looked ill, nervous, worn down, and a myriad of other things to the trained eye, but he was still managing to do this. He knew how difficult it could be; people without inherent anxiety problems would have difficulty coping facing past traumas. He’d seen soldiers go through hell and never recover. He himself had a challenging time with post traumatic stress after discharge, and despite loving and needing the adrenaline in his life, he couldn’t imagine going back to where he was shot. He tried to convey his understanding through his eyes, but it didn’t matter if Mycroft didn’t register it. He secretly hoped that the Holmes parents were observant enough to notice their son’s condition and attempt to hide it for their benefit.  
“Ok.” Mycroft took a deep breath. “I think I’m as ready as I am going to get. Thank you, John.”   
“It’s what friends and family do, mate. I know we’ve had our disagreements in the past, and I’m more Greg’s mate than yours, but we’re still family and I’m here for you too, ok?”  
“Thank you.” Mycroft didn’t know what to say. He’d never really had ‘friends’ in the past, the only one really being Gregory… and he’d married him, so he was a husband first now. Mycroft nodded, and then exited the car. 

Sherlock was standing out with Mummy and Father. The helicopter was in the background, and the three of them stoically standing there reminded him of his insurgent days. The feeling was similar to when he’d be sent away on deadly missions, too. He straightened his tie, and approached with John. He raked his eyes over each of them quickly. Sherlock was tense, anticipating a conflict but hoping to avoid it (much like himself); his father was still blissfully unaware of the intricacies of the situation around him, but was hesitant enough to avoid anything that might cause upset from Violet; and Mummy was smugly sizing Mycroft up in return, glad that she’d won out over him and rather excited to see her daughter. She didn’t show any indication of being a bit cautious regarding his emotional state or the potentially devastating result of going back to Sherrinford. Of course, to her, if Sherlock could do it and be fine then there was no reason for Mycroft to have issue.   
There was uncomfortable silence as Mycroft approached, no-one in the party sure who should be the first to say anything. Everyone seemed to be expecting, but not wanting, Violet to speak first. Just as she looked to say something, John decided to break the ice by stretching himself up as high as possible to kiss Sherlock, whom smiled and leant down to bridge the gap between them. Mycroft could see that the small display of affection had put his mother in a slightly happier mood.   
“Good to see you, Sherlock, and you John. Mycroft, how nice of you to finally stop moping about and join the family for this little outing. And where is your knight in shining armour? I expected him here with his sword drawn and shield poised for you to hide behind.”   
“He is in the hospital, Mummy.”  
“Oh, pity,” Violet hummed as insincerely as humanly possible. “I guess he got what was coming to him.”   
Mycroft’s protective nature over his husband leapt forth over his anxiety, and she shot his mother a deathly glare. “Do not speak of my husband like that,” Mycroft growled through his teeth, any hint of politeness abandoned. Mummy’s smile dropped and she raised her eyebrow at him.   
“You certainly perked up.”  
“He is recovering from a car accident. If you cannot hear the malice in your words, and remain adamant you are entirely innocent regarding the address you received from him, then you are more hypocritical and ignorant than I believed possible from you. He has done nothing but love me and try to protect me from harm. He is my husband, and therefore your son-in-law. If you cannot spare any care his direction for the circumstance that has befallen him, then perhaps you need consider him correct in his assertion that you should not consider yourself a parent.” Mycroft was shaking profusely, both from anger and sheer terror. He was standing up to his mother… actually standing up to her, not just passive-aggressively hinting things. It wasn’t about himself, which made it possible, as he cared much more about Gregory than he did for his own wellbeing. He took large gasps of air, but his gaze remained fixed on his mother’s. She said nothing, and remained staring at Mycroft.   
“You are seriously misguided if you think this is how one apologises,” Violet said calmly.   
John gave Sherlock a look that he hoped was understood as ‘dangerous’, since there was potential for irreparable damage between Mycroft and his mother, and Mycroft was looking like he was verging on collapse. Sherlock nodded softly in return.   
“Mummy, do remember that he is here under your instruction to atone for his actions regarding Eurus. He is entitled to be upset by your callous attitude towards his husband.” Sherlock was firm, and ensured his words weren’t too punching. He knew that he could get away with saying things Mycroft couldn’t. “Given that he is here, despite the toll it is taking for him, should be evidence enough of his desire to make recompense.”   
Violet Holmes eyed Sherlock. “Callous? Toll? Sherlock, pay attention.”   
“Dear, please… listen to your own words. Pay attention… look at our boy. That’s not the Mycroft we knew. He’s shaking,” Siger whispered to Violet. “He needs us. He’s still our son.”  
Mycroft was aware that John had shuffled closer to him, undoubtedly prepared to catch him should he actually collapse. He had to admit it was a distinct possibility, as the edges of his vision had gone white. He swallowed. “Mummy, please. I want to make things right. That means I will visit Eurus with you, but it also means you at least show my husband some respect.” He knew better than to ask for respect for himself. Asking for Gregory was enough for him.   
“He did not give me that courtesy,” Violet sneered.   
Sherlock gave his signature dramatic sigh and rolled his eyes. He was partially legitimately annoyed at his mother’s ignorance, and partially desperate to take the attention off his brother. “Mother, please. He’d just gone through a traumatic event, his husband tried to kill himself, and then he learns you caused even more pain to said husband. It is a reasonable and normal human response for one to protect that which they care about. Do not fault him for loving Mycroft, or vice-versa. You would have done the same for Father or me.”   
Violet seemed to consider Sherlocks’ words and nodded to him. Mycroft felt the sting of Sherlock’s omission of his name, but was pleased his mother was placated. Some of the tension in his body subsided, but he wasn’t sure if that was just his body giving out on him or relief. He said nothing, and just waited for the verdict.   
“Very well, I see your point Sherlock. As awful as it was to be confronted like that, Mycroft, I can understand that both you and Greg felt compelled to do so in the name of love.”   
It was not an admission of wrongdoing on her part, or even an apology of any sort for her own behaviour — merely acknowledging she could understand why they confronted her. Mycroft sneered internally, knowing that he would never be able to get a confession of remorse for her actions from her. She considered herself right unequivocally, and it was enough of a service to Mycroft for her to admit she could understand why Gregory did what he did in response to her behaviour. Sighing, Mycroft nodded. He knew he had to just accept what he was given. “Thank you, Mummy.”  
“Right, well now that that’s settled, how about we get on with the trip, eh?” Siger cheerfully tried to change the subject before it could delve back into darker waters again. He looped his arm around Violet’s, and turned her around to walk towards the helicopter. He shot a worried glance back to Mycroft.   
“You alright?” John asked, stepping closer and grabbing Mycroft’s arm.   
“I-I believe so,” Mycroft said, unconvincingly. It didn’t help that he slumped and stumbled when he tried to take a step.   
“One of these days, brother mine, you will learn that you can be honest about your condition,” Sherlock scolded. He’d reacted to Mycroft’s unsteadiness and grasped his other arm reflexively.   
“It is still difficult to admit to such weakness,” Mycroft admitted to the tarmac.   
“Do you want to lay down a minute?” John asked, but was met with an offended look. “What?”  
“The ground is atrociously filthy.”  
“Well you sound fine now,” John chuckled. He still was helping to support the man, but loosened his grip.   
“Thank you, Sherlock, for your help. You too, of course, John, but I am specifically referring to the assistance fighting against Mummy.”   
“You did well to stand up to her. She needs to realise that she can’t say whatever she wants without being spoken against.”  
“That won’t happen, Sherlock. She’s always been that way and will always be that way,” Mycroft said, resigned. “I am going to do this, placate her, and then do what I can to avoid interaction whilst she does not despise my very being.” He stood up straighter, patted the music box against his chest, and took a breath. John released his arm, and they slowly followed towards the helicopter. 

~ 

It was haunting. He couldn’t put a different word to it. He saw the ghosts in his mind’s eye as he walked the corridors. The blood had been cleared away but he could still see it. There was activity buzzing about him, noises from technology and people everywhere… and yet all he could hear was silence; the harrowing silence of being completely alone, locked on an island full of the dead. John had pulled him aside to check on him whilst Sherlock busied his parents, but it had been marginally alright then. He’d only just landed. Now he was fighting to keep one foot in front of the other. He was only half aware of his surroundings; the other half was lost in the past.   
John was asked to remain out in the receiving area. Chairs were taken by guards as they walked towards the cell. Mycroft just followed, trying not to look at the faces around him. The nameless faces of the dead, lying on the floor… no, these faces weren’t dead yet. _But they could be_ , he kept thinking. _She kept trying to kill us all the last time we were together. She tried to kill me and Sherlock the last we saw her. What’s to say this isn’t all another ruse? Another step to her plans?  
_ Mycroft couldn’t hear anything but the beating of his own heart in his ears as he approached the elevator. He felt like he was only half inhabiting his body; he didn’t have awareness of it. He stood behind his parents, next to his brother, in the elevator. His heart was still pounding, but he only could tell from the noise. Was he breathing? No. He figured he probably should do that. It was probably why the world was tilting. Sherlock was looking at him… and grabbing his elbow. Mycroft didn’t respond; he wasn’t sure there even was a question posed. Not that it mattered, as his demon was about to appear on the other side of the doors. He couldn’t let her see his weakness. She’d prey on it. _Battle. Into battle… stay stoic_.  
The doors opened and Mycroft felt like he crashed into his body, having been floating above it for some time. He was suddenly overwhelmed with sensations: nausea, pain, tension throughout all his body, tightness of his chest, screaming of his lungs for oxygen, and pounding of his heart and the pulsing of the blood through his arteries. The emotions came second; terror, panic, urge to flee… they were the strongest and if there were any others, they were buried below. She just stood there, staring at the opened door, unmoving. The cold eyes that stabbed Mycroft in the chest. He lifted his hand to press against the music box. Gregory was there with him, it would be ok.   
Sherlock released his arm and nodded at him as they exited the elevator. Violet and Siger walked and sat on the chairs that had been placed just before they’d entered. Mycroft remained in the elevator, shaking. His muscles refused to let him get closer to Eurus. He could see the governor, the blood, Eurus on the screen as she tortured them for her own curiosity, her cold eyes as she grabbed him and threw him into the cell, the emotionless expression as she approached him cowering on the floor — talking, always talking in that deadpan tone. He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t let her know anything was wrong. He summoned strength he didn’t know he had to take a step, and then another, never taking his eyes off Eurus as he sat on the remaining chair.   
His parents spoke to Eurus, and Mycroft was terrified that she’d respond; that she’d awaken from her catatonic state and begin her murderous rampage anew. His vision was narrowed, but he didn’t pass out. He was far too alert to let that happen. Sherlock pulled out the violin, and Eurus moved to collect hers. Mycroft flinched at the movement and began to shake. He put his hands in his lap to try and force the tremors to stop. No, that wasn’t working. His legs were trembling as well. He shifted, and settled to have both feet planted firmly on the ground (subconsciously ready to flee at a moment’s notice), and grasped at his knees to stop the shaking. Sherlock and Eurus began their performance, but Mycroft barely registered it. He was fixated on observing Eurus. Making sure there was no hidden agenda, no flicker of a plot afoot, no indication of subterfuge. He couldn’t say that he’d ever been so stressed and focused in his life.   
  
He jolted as he felt his mother’s hand close over his. He was so shocked at this act that he even turned his head to look at her, breaking his focus from Eurus. She remained stiff in her demeanour towards him, but was willing to show that she accepted his efforts to reconnect. Mycroft knew the relief showed briefly on his face: he’d done it; he’d managed to get there and sit before Eurus and win forgiveness. The issue would be left in the past from now on, and that made the sheer horror of what he’d faced stepping into the building seem somewhat worth it. He had held things together and faced the trauma, and he’d come out on top. Thanks to his struggles today, he’d be able to walk on from the pain of the past.  
_Gregory would be proud.  
_ _I am proud._


	28. Get Out

The music stopped, and there was silence again. Mycroft repeated the mantra in his head of ‘I did it, I did it’, all the while remaining fixed on Eurus… proud that he’d made it. Then she turned and looked directly at him. The world froze; time stood still and all Mycroft could do was see those cold eyes staring at him. He lost touch with the sensations around him, much like when he had a flashback… except this time he couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. _Is this really happening?_ Mycroft saw Eurus approach him… _Do I hide? If she’s really there, doing this, then I have to get away… but if it’s in my head, reacting will only make her prey on me… what do I do?  
_ Mycroft let his eyes flicker around him. Sherlock was there, his parents were there. No, there was only Sherlock… who had a gun in his hand instead of a violin. Blood smeared the glass, but it was gone the next moment he looked. Eurus remained standing there, staring, and Mycroft tried hard to avoid her gaze. He could feel her hovering over him. _I’m actually here, I’m here… but I’m not trapped. I can escape. I just have to get out.  
_ Mycroft forced his body to stand somehow, and he heard the scraping of metal on concrete. The chair… it was there, and then it was gone. His parents were looking at him… but as soon as he turned to look at them, they were gone and replaced with the governor’s body laying in the cell. No matter how hard he tried to focus, he couldn’t navigate the twisted world around him; he had no idea what was reality, or what his actions were in that reality. The only thing that remained in his mind was to escape. Get out. He didn’t know how, and he tried to do so as calmly and inconspicuously as possible, however without an awareness of himself or those around him, he didn’t know if he was succeeding.  
_Get to the elevator._

Mycroft opened the door, and was met with a screen showing Eurus’ face. He was sure he paled further, and he spun around only to find Eurus was still there in her cell, unmoving. Sherlock held the violin, and was speaking something in his direction, but Mycroft couldn’t tell what. He couldn’t hear anything. Sherlock lifted up the gun and pointed it at him. Mycroft shook. He wanted to return to Gregory, he wanted to scream for his life, but the alternative was John beside him… who wasn’t there. Mummy frowned at him; he turned away to see Eurus smirking at him on the screen… he backed out away from it, and collided with his father. He spun around to see Eurus stepping silently closer towards him. He shuddered as he slowly retreated into the elevator. A hand on his shoulder, Sherlock’s voice telling him it’d be ok…   
_Keep it together, you can’t let her see… once you can, just run. Run as fast as you can, Mycroft; run back to Gregory.  
_ More people were in the elevator. Eurus remained staring, unmoving. Someone was holding his elbow, pressing firmly. He turned to see it was Sherlock… mature, caring, helpful Sherlock. He was so proud of his little brother. Said brother smiled at him… had he said that out loud? Mycroft saw the doors shut and Eurus was gone from his vision. Mycroft gripped at his hair and clenched his eyes together. He then looked around the inside of the small compartment; he couldn’t see a screen with her face.   
_I must be escaping. This must be real; I’m not trapped there anymore.  
_ Mycroft was aware that his parents were talking to, or about, him… but he couldn’t hear them. He just heard the blood pound in his ears. Why were they here? They weren’t supposed to be here… just Sherlock and John. He shook his head, reminding himself that it was a visit with his family. The doors opened and they walked back into the control room. Mycroft could see the busy people, the not-dead walking about, but couldn’t stop the feeling that they were all about to be killed. He wanted to vomit and run, but he restrained himself to prevent Eurus from seeing… no, Eurus was still in her cell. The guards weren’t under her control anymore. No, these ones never were… those guards died. Bodies everywhere. The screams, the shouting, the gunfire, and then the silence.   
“Let me out,” Mycroft whispered. He couldn’t pretend any longer. If the men approaching were not under Eurus’ control, then they’d listen to him. They’d release him from this Hell. The guards were still approaching, but there were no doors opening before him. He moved away from his family, turning back to see only bloodied remains of guards. “Let me out!” Mycroft repeated, louder. His heart thudded so forcefully in his chest he worried it would break a rib, but it didn’t matter… he just had to _get out_. The guards weren’t helping, so he pushed his way past them to try find an exit himself.  
Suddenly, thankfully, a door was before him. It wouldn’t open, and so he tried harder and harder. The guards seemed intent on stopping him… Eurus’ men, unaware of their fate as of yet. He had to get out before the killing started. Mycroft could hear Eurus’ voice over the speakers, Moriarty’s brief videos flashed upon the screens behind him as the world went red. He vaguely was aware he was screaming as he clawed at the door, but it wouldn’t budge. The men impacted with him, and pinned him to the ground. He struggled but there were to many to resist. He felt another body upon him, and then a stinging sensation in his rear. He panicked; he couldn’t go back into the cell. It’d been a trap, it was all a trap and he’d never see Gregory again. He wailed, deliberately pressing his chest even harder into the ground to feel the press of the metal music box.   
_I’m sorry my love, I’m so sorry… I escaped once, but I couldn’t manage it this time. I’ll miss you._  
Mycroft could feel himself losing touch with his body and the surroundings, and he slipped into unconsciousness with his last thoughts being of Gregory. 

~

John stood up once Mycroft was sedated. He simply handed the used (capped) syringe to the nearest guard, put both hands on his hips and looked up at Sherlock with a concerned look. The guards released their grip of the body on the floor, and John bent down to put him in the recovery position as Sherlock approached.   
“He was managing so well,” Sherlock mumbled over his brother’s limp form.   
“Unfortunately things can just… snap.”  
“It wasn’t until the performance was over that he started acting strangely.”   
“We’ll ask him about it, but it might have just been too much triggering him and he couldn’t cope any longer. But no questions until he’s in the hospital with Greg. He’ll be out for a little now, so I suggest we get him there as soon as possible,” John explained, still in his professional persona. He melted a little back into ‘caring friend’ once Sherlock reached out and rubbed his arm in a half-hug. Before he or Sherlock could continue to talk, they were joined by the Holmes parents.   
“Our poor boy. He really shouldn’t have come,” Siger said, his eyes flickering pointedly at Violet.   
“How dramatic. He should hold himself to higher standards; that was ridiculous, the idiot boy,” Violet dictated with her air of superiority. She did not expect three faces to glare at her instantaneously.   
“Mrs Holmes, there becomes a point where the human mind simply _cannot_ cope anymore. It is not a failing on their point; for no matter how much they may wish to remain in control, their body and mind betrays them. You would not scold an amputee for being unable to remain hopping a marathon, and so similarly you cannot be so brazen regarding someone with PTSD and Generalised Anxiety Disorder for dissociating and reacting violently when faced with their trauma.” John tried to remain professional and explaining as he would any other person in the hospital, but it was difficult not to allow his resentment to take a hold of his tone. How a mother could see their son have a traumatic episode such as that, and stand over his unconscious body scolding his behaviour… he didn’t know. He’d thought, secretly to himself, that if Violet Holmes actually saw Mycroft not cope with her own eyes, her opinion would change. Apparently not.  
“Listen to John, dear. He’s a doctor, and has good experience in this. It’s not Mycroft being weak, he’s just unwell right now.” Siger tried to keep his tone soft and supportive despite being obviously angered.   
“You can tell me that all you like but if he wants to make it in this world and actually _do better_ then he’s going to have to control himself. This simply isn’t on.”  
Sherlock rounded and stood at full height over Violet Holmes. “That is enough, Mother. You have lived such a sheltered life that you cannot fathom what it is like to experience these traumas. I have been through a lot in my life, but as I have mostly been the one electing to endure those experiences, I find it easier. Even _I_ have found it difficult returning here given what Eurus did to us. That is me talking. Mycroft has done everything he could and more. You can’t stand there scolding him for trying beyond what he was capable of, just to please you. He did all of this to maintain a pleasant relationship with you, and I believed it possible. Now, I fully expected him to break down, as I have witnessed such at far lesser stimuli; I had thought he would succeed in that goal because you would recognise the pain he was willing to endure for you! Father simply wants us to all be a family… but you’re the one keeping it apart, not Mycroft. Are you truly so shallow that you only want to know him when he’s coping? When he’s presenting what you want to see? Let me tell you this… I stand supporting Mycroft as he is, like he’s done for me my whole life. So does John, and Lestrade. Father obviously agrees. You seem to be at an impasse, Mummy, wherein you must choose to be kind to your family without them meeting your expectations or be without one entirely.”  
Violet, for the first time in Sherlock’s memory, looked shocked. She didn’t have a response. She merely looked at the three faces staring intently at her, at Mycroft on the ground, and at the guards surrounding her whom were trying not to pry but keeping a watch on the situation. She clearly registered the physical gap between herself and everyone else; they were all standing before her, with Mycroft.   
“You… you all are in agreement with Sherlock?” Violet asked, intensely aware of the scrutiny she was under from the entire room.   
“Yes,” John said firmly. He gave her one of the forceful stern glares he picked up in the Army.   
Siger took a step closer. “I love my son, dear. I won’t let him hurt himself to make us happy. He doesn’t need to do that just out of fear or sense of obligation. It’s not his fault. That doesn’t mean it’s yours, but it means that if we love him we don’t hold it against him and we are there to help.” Siger knew that realistically, a lot of the situation was in fact Violet’s fault, but also knew that there was no way she was going to change her attitude if that fact was brought up. It was just one of those white lies that needed to be said in order to make the situation better. He smiled brightly when his wife nodded at him.  
“Alright. I concede that Mycroft was not childish to behave this way; that he was unable to cope. I will not hold it against him.” 

It wasn’t exactly the apology or admission Sherlock had hoped for, but it would do for now. As terrible as it was for Mycroft to have suffered so, it did, at least, have a better outcome for him. Even if he was currently unaware of it. Sherlock doubted Mummy would have been open to information about Mycroft not coping, or really any difference from her preconceptions about him, without having witnessed the extent of the issue and been forced to choose between family or her expectations. Sure, she would have accepted Mycroft’s apology from attending, but the demands placed upon his older brother would have remained… and if Sherlock was honest, he wasn’t sure Mycroft would ever again be able to maintain those demands.  
John directed the guards to carry Mycroft to the helicopter on the stretcher that had been brought out. The remainder of the family followed in pensive silence. At least Mycroft would never again be required to return to Sherrinford. Hopefully, he’d be able to maintain some distance from Mummy and Father as well, Sherlock thought as they boarded the aircraft. He looked at Mycroft, and gave a pained smile. It seemed like it was the last trial he had to suffer through to start repairing himself properly, and without interruption. He’d see that their parents remained helpful in Mycroft’s recovery — keeping away, most likely, but there could be requests Mycroft will have of them. John squeezed his hand and gave a loving grin. Sherlock nodded slightly his agreement. Yes, he’d done well, and right, by his family this time. 

~

Greg lay in the bed reading, absent-mindedly tapping his fingers with his right hand. He was glad that small movements of his hand didn’t cause him any pain. He was trying to focus on something other than what Mycroft was doing, or how he was going. He was, however, still alert enough to register someone coming to open his door before the handle twisted. Instantly he tossed the book aside seeing that it was John who had walked in.  
“Hey, mate, how you feeling?” John asked as he strode in, motioning to take a seat.  
“Fine, how’d it go?”  
“You would have been so proud of him, Greg,” John said, a sad smile on his face.  
Greg instantly jolted upright from the adrenaline surge. “Would have? What happened? Where’s Mycroft?”  
“Whoa, easy mate… sorry, poor word choice. He’s on his way and should be here in a minute. I just meant that he tried really hard. He even stood up to his mother.”  
The tension eased in Greg’s body, and he took a few breaths to steady himself. His chest screamed in pain at him from the sudden movements, and his abdomen wasn’t happy about it either. He then frowned in disbelief. “Seriously? Mycroft stood up for himself? Against Violet Holmes?”  
“Ah, well, not exactly,” John said hesitantly. “Violet was quite mean to him as per usual, however he would not stand anything said against you. He stood up to her for you, Greg. He let everything she said against himself slide, didn’t say anything about her pitiful apology, but actually _hissed_ at her to defend your honour.”  
Greg wasn’t sure what to feel. His Mycroft faced two of his biggest demons today, and one of those was directly for him. Mycroft loved him so fiercely he was willing to stand up to his mother. Greg felt the urge to wrap Mycroft up in his arms and squeeze him, kissing him all over; pain be damned. That feeling, and the resulting grin on his face, dropped when he saw Mycroft’s still form wheeled into the room.  
“What happened?” Greg asked again, his voice panicked.  
“He… needed sedating, and we decided it was best he remained under until he was here,” John said after a long pause. Greg shot him a pointed look, one of which he’d come to know to mean ‘start explaining, now’. Before he could begin the story, Sherlock strode into the room.  
“My parents are returning home. We will not have to speak with them for some time,” Sherlock announced, taking a seat beside John.  
“Good. Now, back to telling me exactly what happened,” Greg warned, his eyes not leaving Mycroft’s body as the three nurses shifted him off the gurney and onto the bed that had been pushed up beside Greg’s.  
“He was really nervous about meeting his parents. They had a conversation on the tarmac, wherein he looked like he was going to fall to his knees. He defended you, and said some important things I think. He managed to compose himself as Siger took Violet away, and then we all flew to Sherrinford in relative silence. The Holmes parents were rather excited to see Eurus, but Mycroft was stiff as a board the whole time. He said he was alright when we landed, but I think it started to take a real toll on him once he got inside,” John explained. He looked over to Sherlock, who took the hint to continue.   
“He seemed pretty normal, considering his normal was stoic and expressionless. I could tell he was trying hard to keep the façade up, but there were those little flickers of expression that didn’t escape my notice. I tried to give him indications of support and I think it helped; that was, until, I started playing of course. Mummy took his hand during the performance in a show of acceptance, which undoubtedly Mycroft understood. He’d done as he was asked and so was forgiven his transgressions enough for the matter to be passed over from now on.” Sherlock tried to remain entirely detached and observational, but his voice betrayed him.  
“Good, but I’m not really hearing cause for alarm yet.”  
“Yes, right. Once I had finished playing, Mycroft changed. He started looking about in confusion, and didn’t respond when I spoke to him. Eurus was looking at him, and he kept trying to avoid looking back. He leapt out of the chair and made for the elevator, and I could tell he was trying hard to conceal his distress but he was too far gone to hear me try to help. Once we returned from the cell, he completely lost the control he was fumbling to hang on to.”  
“He stepped into the room white as a sheet. I asked if he was alright but he ignored me, and then just said ‘let me out’. I gave Sherlock a look to try make that happen asap, but it was too late. He shouted it again and again; screamed it even. Kept flinching away from the guards, and ran at a wall. He started clawing at it, still demanding to be let out, until several of the guards managed to tackle him to the ground. It took five of them to keep him still enough for me to climb on and inject the midazolam, so you can imagine how agitated he was. I patched up his hands on the way over, as you can see… mostly superficial, but he may need that wrist x-rayed. I really don’t think he was aware of what was actually going on. He mumbled about missing you and being sorry as if he wasn’t going to see you again, so it’s likely he was experiencing a flashback with all the stimuli and thought Eurus had caught him. I honestly don’t know what his state will be when he wakes up.”  
“He’ll be cared for regardless,” Greg uttered. His poor Mycroft had braved so much, managed so well… it didn’t matter if he was a nervous wreck again. They had gotten better together before, they’d do it again. At least this time it sounded like Mycroft would have a chance to be able to _stay_ better, and Greg was better prepared for how to handle it.


	29. Quiet

Mycroft stirred, and became aware of his surroundings. He instantly flinched and wrenched his eyes open, panicked that his sister had put him back in the cell or worse — he found, however, his body sluggish and unresponsive.   
_Drugged, then. This does not bode well for me._  
Once the initial adrenaline surge died, Mycroft was able to register that the walls around him weren’t that of Sherrinford, but rather a hospital. His eyes flickered about until they found Gregory lying beside him, their beds pressed up together, with a concerned smile on his face. The tension flowed out of his body seeing his love safe and relatively well.   
“Hey, Sunshine. You’re alright, you’re safe; it’s just me and you here for now.”   
Mycroft felt himself calm further at hearing Gregory’s voice. He sunk back into the bed. The emotions swirled in his chest and threatened to drown him as he recalled his last memories, getting mixed in with the love and relief at seeing his husband. The positive feelings were quickly dominated by the overwhelming guilt and shame over his behaviour. There hadn’t even been a danger this time, and he’d reacted more violently than ever before. He was utterly embarrassed to have lost control to that extent, let alone for it to have been witnessed by not only the staff of Sherrinford (and therefore his colleagues), but also his parents. He trembled, and screwed his face from the agony of the memories and shame. He didn’t want to cry, but reasoned that he’d just done a lot worse and so in comparison it wouldn’t matter. He let the tears stream down.   
“Oh, love…” Gregory said to him, but Mycroft just shook his head. He didn’t feel like he deserved the comfort. Instead, he turned onto his side so that his back was to his husband, and sobbed quietly to himself.   
Greg felt his heart break when Mycroft’s tormented face broke into tears and he tried to hide it. He used his good hand to reach over and rub gently up along Mycroft’s arm. It wasn’t much, but it was all he was physically capable of. “It’s ok gorgeous, you don’t have to hide from me.”   
Mycroft didn’t respond. He really didn’t want to talk at all. His muscles felt weak, almost shaky, but the lethargy from feeling so horrid about himself kept his body still. His gut felt like it wanted to tear itself out of his body, and leave a cavity in his chest while it was at it.   
“Mycroft?”  
He could hear the concern in Gregory’s voice, but he just shook his head slightly. He expected him to retract his offer of comfort in response, but Gregory continued to softly stroke his arm. Mycroft still felt like he didn’t deserve it, but he appreciated it all the more for that reason. His husband loved him and cared for him despite how broken and horrible he was. 

Greg continued to offer the small gesture of support in silence. Mycroft didn’t feel like talking, and that was alright. He needed some space and some time, but he needed to know he wasn’t alone. They laid there like that for a while, before Mycroft’s psychiatrist walked in. Greg honestly felt like it was too soon. He could understand the need for some crisis support for his husband, but having been present for one of his sessions and seeing the technique that the woman used made him wary. It was too forceful a technique for Mycroft’s fragile state right now. He couldn’t say anything, but he didn’t stop his gentle petting of his husband’s arm whilst Dr Waters pulled a chair up to face Mycroft. He hoped that it was signal enough that he was going to be there to stand up for Myc.   
“Hello, Mycroft. I understand you organised this admission in advance. That’s rather irregular; it’s not something I would have expected from you given your general propensity to deny the severity of your issues, and generally indicative of intent to receive care for a perceived acute crisis without the situation meeting that criterion.”   
Greg instantly wanted to bite her head off with some choice words. How dare she march in here large as bloody life and tell Mycroft he was overreacting? Or worse — attention seeking? He snorted loudly, and surely had a deathly scowl on his face. Neither Dr Waters nor Mycroft reacted in the slightest, however. Greg waited a few drawn-out seconds to let his protective rage die down enough to make a civil response.   
“On the contrary, Myc is desperately in need of crisis care now. We just happened to know the event to trigger it in advance. It’s not overreacting; it’s preparation,” Greg said sternly, leaving the remaining ‘ _and so you can shove your high and mighty attitude so far up your arse you’ll have to see if the surgeons will bother helping you remove it_ ’ end of his sentence only be spoken loudly in his head.  
Mycroft didn’t visibly respond to Gregory’s words, but he smiled in his mind. Always there to protect him, much like the knight Mummy had described him as — even if Mycroft felt more like the dragon than the damsel. He felt compelled to answer himself, but really didn’t feel up to making any kind of response. He figured that he’d already sunken to the worst he could, given his outburst in Sherrinford, and so there wasn’t any point in trying to maintain some semblance of coping. If he wanted to ignore the therapist and remain motionless, then he damn-well could. He was already in a hospital bed and under scrutiny from his family and colleagues; there was little more the therapist could do to him to ruin his image — barring being committed. For once in his life, he just didn’t _care_ about how he was perceived by anyone and was going to do as he wanted.  
“Yes, I heard about the return to Sherrinford. I concede the point, Mr Lestrade.”  
“Lestrade-Holmes,” Greg sneered proudly. He was happy _that_ had gotten a reaction out of Mycroft, who had turned his head around to look at him incredulously. “I signed and submitted the paperwork while you were gone, love. You literally went to Hell to face your biggest demons… for me. You wanted to put this trauma behind you so you could be there _for me_. I might not have been able to join you for that battle, but I wanted there to be no doubt in anyone’s mind that you are a part of me always, and similarly, that I am with you always. I belong to you, Mycroft Holmes, and it’s there for all to see even clearer now.”  
Mycroft began to cry all over again, but this time it was from the rush of affection he felt. He shuffled so he was facing Gregory, his back to the psychiatrist, and curled up to hug his partner’s arm. His tears wet the soft skin, but he didn’t care. He knew Gregory wouldn’t mind. Despite Mycroft insisting he didn’t mind either way, that they were married and Gregory could do what he liked with his name, he was incredibly happy for the reason behind the change. He didn’t know how to express that gratitude, or reciprocate, and so settled for coddling Gregory’s muscular arm.   
“That is a lovely sentiment, Mr Lestrade-Holmes. I’m sure Mycroft considers you in a similar manner. However I do need to ascertain the exact state of his wellbeing for my report to the hospital staff, of which I shall base my estimation for his stay,” Dr Waters said with cool detachment.   
“Well, his state is ‘blabbering mess who can’t even talk yet’. He’s broken, doctor, and I think you should give him some time before trying to analyse him. He’s clearly not in a state to handle talking to you.”   
Dr Waters sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Generally it’s when someone isn’t in a state to talk that they need it most, but I can see how a little more adjustment time is needed here, given that you are present to act as a support in the meantime. I will come back tomorrow to give the staff my initial assessment. I believe he would benefit from sleeping medication whilst he stays here, and so I will inform the treating physician to administer one each night. I will see you both tomorrow.”   
“Right,” Greg said, taken aback that he’d actually gotten through to her. “Thanks. See you tomorrow.”  
Mycroft didn’t move still, and remained hugging Greg’s arm, seemingly oblivious to Dr Waters leaving. He wished he could take Mycroft up in a warm, solid embrace, but had to settle for being cuddled from a distance until he healed up more. Just the movement to look at Mycroft was painful enough, but it was worth it to let the man see him smile and reassure that it was all ok. 

~

Mycroft hadn’t said a word for the remainder of the day and following night. Gregory remained trying to talk to him occasionally, but Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to speak. Partly he felt he didn’t have the energy to do so, and partly he was afraid of what he’d say. He appreciated that Gregory never got angry or pushed, and simply continued to offer kind words. Sherlock had been a little more frustrated, but Mycroft knew he’d understand eventually. John had been there to explain to Sherlock a little, which had been helpful. He didn’t miss the concern from the good doctor, however. Strangely Mycroft actually felt good instead of ashamed from the situation — normally, he’d have just instantly been overwhelmed with shame and guilt for expressing enough to warrant concern; this time, Mycroft simply had implored his husband’s ‘fuck everything, deal with it’ attitude and felt affection instead that John would care for him. Gregory had legitimately said to him: ‘ _fuck everything, Myc. They can deal with it. You’ve been through enough as it is; you don’t need to bother about other people’s reactions to your coping as well_ ’, which had astoundingly made a lot of sense. So far, it had been working out well. 

The psychiatrist returned in the morning to conduct her assessment. Mycroft remained laying on his side facing the wall. He followed her with his eyes, clearly showing that he was still aware of his surroundings and situation, and was merely electing not to talk. She sat in the same seat as the previous day, and looked down upon him. Mycroft looked away and stared out into space.   
“Good morning, Mycroft. How are you feeling today?”  
Mycroft didn’t respond, or even give an indication that he’d heard her. She, as well as Gregory behind him, knew that he obviously had. Gregory’s hand patted his back a few times before resting upon his arm.   
“He still hasn’t spoken,” Greg answered, his voice concerned. “He’s cried a few times, but mostly just stared at nothing.”   
Dr Waters looked up at Greg, annoyed that he’d elected to answer instead of Mycroft. She knew better than to be impertinent with Mr Lestrade-Holmes, however, lest she be sent from the room. “Thank you for telling me. However, for the most benefit come from these sessions, I will require Mr Holmes to be the one interacting with me.”   
“Just saying, he’s probably not going to. It struck me as best to prevent you getting angry with him for it.”   
“I would not ‘get angry’ at him for being unwell.”  
Greg raised an aporetic eyebrow at the psychiatrist, which she seemed to understand. She shuffled under Greg’s gaze and cleared her throat. Greg smirked to himself in his head.  
“I must say that given your usual distaste for being spoken of as if you are not in the room, it is unexpected you haven’t made a comment thus far, Mycroft.” Dr Waters said, trying to poke her patient into responding, albeit carefully whilst his guard-dog husband had her in his sights. She sighed quietly when Mycroft didn’t even look up at her. It was extremely unusual behaviour from the man, and it was concerning — even if he was obviously aware of the world around him, continuously remaining unresponsive was particularly abhorrent behaviour for Mr Holmes.   
“You will have to talk about your experience at some point, Mycroft, and so delaying it won’t matter in the long run.”   
“It would help the emotions now.”  
“Perhaps, Mr Lestrade-Holmes, but bottling them all up would not be of benefit if that is the case here,” Dr waters answered, despairing that her attempts to prod her patient into response were failing. Mycroft could be persuaded to talk about important things if led there in a roundabout way, but he had to be talking first — even if it was just to bite back at her. She concluded a new tactic would have to be utilised in this situation. “I’m here to listen to your feelings, Mycroft. Whatever they may be. I am not going to recommend committing you to the hospital’s psychiatric department based on what you tell me here now. I understand this is a crisis situation and that the best place for you is with your husband. Now that you don’t have to fear being taken away, it really would help if you could tell me something about what you’re experiencing now.”  
Greg was pleased at the change of tactics. Dr Waters had likely hit the nail on the head when it came to Mycroft’s fear of being sent away from him. It was also good that she was attempting to be more empathic towards Mycroft now. Goading him and then manipulating the outcome (he was not oblivious to her intentions) might work when he’s functioning and his exceptional mind is working at trying to cope, but when he’s completely shattered and entirely emotional, he needs an un-ending stream of care and reassurance. Greg would have told her that, had she bothered to ask or listen to him. He rubbed along Mycroft’s arm to show his encouragement. 

Mycroft continued to feel the hollow emptiness inside him that seemed to drain him of all energy. It was quite the different state of being to normal; he was used to being constantly worked up and having to smooth over the anxiety to appear calm and collected, more so simply be overwhelmed by the electric-like buzz as of late, and so the lethargy was a strange — albeit not unwelcome —change. It was similar to the feelings he had the night he attempted to take his life, but without the sense of wrongness or fog clouding his mind to consequences. He was aware that the doctor was still talking to him whilst he ruminated over his emotions, but he could barely make out what she was saying. It just didn’t seem to matter enough to drag his mind out of the fog to pay attention. Not right now. He was done fighting against the emotions to bend to his will. He was just going to allow them to play out for once and let everyone else be the control valve for a change. It was a liberating sensation.   
“Mycroft, can you hear me?” Dr Waters asked, having been speaking for a solid ten minutes without the faintest trace that her words had been understood. When Mycroft didn’t respond to that either, she flickered her eyes up to his husband. “Has he responded to you at all?”  
“Nothing verbal. He’s shuffled about, and I can just tell he’s aware of what I’m saying when I talk to him, but hasn’t technically responded to anything in particular.”   
“To be honest with you, I believe he’s bordering on the edge of awareness. Perhaps shifting in and out of being present. Not quite catatonia but still lost in a sense.”  
“That’s… it’s not good, is it?”  
“Not particularly, no. Patients sometimes have dissociation after a traumatic event, but it rarely is as prolonged as this. As you know, the dissociation can be more extreme than this as well, so at least there’s that.”  
“What do we do? Is there a process to get him to interact more or something?”   
“Yes, but doing so is rather specific to the situation of the individual. I stand by my assertion that it would not be beneficial to send him to the psychiatric department, but this may be a prolonged issue that requires more specific and frequent assistance.”  
Greg hummed in concern. He squeezed Mycroft on the arm gently. Part of him really wanted to go back in time and just order Mycroft’s detainment to prevent him going to Sherrinford at all. But, since he couldn’t do that, he had to try and think of a way to move forward. “Would having family interact with him help?”  
“A loving and supportive environment would certainly be beneficial,” Dr Waters said, being particular about the requirements for the family because of knowing what her patient’s parents were like.   
“He’s got that in spades, so that’s good.” Greg grinned, glad he was able to reference Sherlock and John as well. They were visiting soon, actually.   
“I am compelled to tell you that I have to deliver a condition report to Mycroft’s colleagues after I leave.”   
Greg’s smile dropped immediately. “What?”  
“They employed me for this reason, Mr Lestrade-Holmes. They have been made aware of the event at Sherrinford and are most eager for an update on the situation.”   
“You’re not going to throw him under the bus, are you?”  
Dr Waters gave Greg a stern look. “I will include the progress he had made up until the episode at Sherrinford, but I cannot omit the facts of the case. It would not be in anyone’s best interests,” she said firmly. She then sighed and looked back at Mycroft, whom had still not reacted. “If I am honest, I do not believe Mycroft will be able to return to work in the capacity he held it previously.”   
“What, at all?” Greg couldn’t hide the panic in his voice.   
“Unfortunately not. That is not to say that he will not be able to return at all, merely that his duties and responsibilities will be different. He may be able to progress to a point where he is able to work as before, but I don’t believe it was a healthy position for him in the first place. It was borne out of necessity and he managed to hold it together well enough for that cause; however, now that the necessity has been removed—”  
“He’ll not cope, yes, I understand. I guess I agree with you in that it wasn’t good for him, and if he can find something that he can manage and be happy — and more importantly, healthy — with… then it’s a positive. He’s just not going to take it well.”

Mycroft felt like he couldn’t breathe. Not the desperate, unable-to-get-enough-oxygen type that he was used to — no, this was a struggle-to-force-one’s-body-to-draw-breath kind. He could hear the conversation happening around him as if they were voices hovering above, taunting him. Speaking about him as if he wasn’t there (which, really, was half true), and talking of his shortcomings. A terrifying question loomed over him: did he _want_ to take another breath? His body was starting to demand air, but his mind was racing too much to acquiesce. He could remember the determination he felt when on the floor of the hospital mere days ago, the urge to cope and put the past behind him for Gregory’s sake. He desperately wanted to feel that again. It was like he didn’t have the energy to do so. Since he was allowing himself to be completely honest with himself: he felt like giving up. A little piece of him was whispering ‘ _don’t take another breath, let it be over_ ’. The logical part of his mind tried to argue, but couldn’t find the strength to come up with good enough arguments to successfully fend off the voice. His other emotions, specifically the ones directed at Gregory, were insistent to beat the voice into oblivion — however, they currently also lacked the means. He was left with feeling like he wanted to endanger himself, harm himself, but still remain alive to be there for Gregory. His logical brain couldn’t quite understand how he could be simultaneously suicidal and not suicidal, but he boiled it down to just emotional turmoil that was desperate for release and the residual determination to sort himself out to be better for his husband. The shame that overwhelmed him for those thoughts — the desire to harm himself, or attempt to, merely for the emotional release of doing so and the care received — made him want to cower away even from himself. He felt like a monster to legitimately want to do that despite what it’d do to his husband.  
_Talk to him. Tell him what I’m feeling, at least. Maybe him just listening to the turmoil will help release it enough. I have to just be honest. We promised each other that. It will require talking, though. Talking will require air.  
_ Mycroft slowly drew in breath, and then another soon after for good measure. He was aware they were still conversing, but he’d lost the plot of whatever they were saying long ago. Not since mentioning his work status. He decided he only wanted to talk when Gregory was there, alone, and only once he’d worked out exactly how to phrase what he wanted to say as to cause the least amount of worry. He sighed in his mind, thinking how truly crappy it was that these things just kept happening to them both. He knew life was never meant to be easy, and that what he had in the way of benefits also came with significant difficulties in other areas… but at this moment, he really just wanted less of a peak-and-trough existence. 

“I’m going to up his medication; it’ll be the maximum dose but hopefully it’ll help. Without actually hearing what’s going on inside his head, I can’t really do much in the way of treatment options. I think seeing him again soon would be the best course of action at this point. I’ll ask the nurses to inform me once there’s a change, and I will come in as soon as I can. If you start getting more of a response, just let them know, alright?”  
Greg nodded and bid her farewell. He was disheartened with the situation, and the knowledge that Mycroft would be rather upset regarding the job stuff (assuming he’d heard it). He was also starting to feel the pain stronger, and was hoping for a little bit more of whatever happy pills they had him on.


	30. Now and Then

Sherlock entered the room with Rosie strapped to his chest and John following close on his side. Rosie had grown a fair bit, being almost a year old, but still looked an appropriate size to be in the baby carrier upon Sherlock’s person. Had John been the one to carry her, it would have been a different story. Greg smiled as he looked at the little family stroll in. “Hey, guys,” he said quietly.   
“Hey, Greg, and you too, Mycroft,” John answered genially, putting a duffle bag on the floor. “Look, Rosie, it’s your uncles. Do you want to say hello?” He wiggled his fingers as he spoke to his daughter.   
“Uncle Greg wants a cuddle!” Greg called out, raising his arms in the air. He winced at the movement. “Maybe a careful one, I’m still a bit tender.”   
John chuckled as he took Rosie out of the carrier and moved over to Greg’s bed. “Here we go, we’ll sit you up here,” he cooed whilst placing Rosie on the bed. “Is Mycroft…?”  
Greg sombrely shook his head. “No, still hasn’t said anything. The psychiatrist was here a few hours ago, but he didn’t say anything then either. I am afraid he heard us talking about his work, however, and I’m concerned how he’s taking it. Hell, I’m concerned about him point blank.”  
Sherlock rummaged in the duffle bag for a moment before approaching his brother’s bedside. He furrowed his brows as he looked upon Mycroft’s face; he looked weary and drawn, but instead of appearing absent-minded as expected, he looked defeated. “Hello, Mycroft,” he spoke softly, still feeling unease at the change in their roles. He reached out and put the items he’d collected from the bag into Mycroft’s hands.  
“What’s that?” Greg asked, noticing the exchange.   
“He asked me to bring him his book. Before you snap at me, I was only doing as requested. Take up your concerns with Mycroft.”   
Greg wanted to demand the wretched book be thrown from the window, but he steeled himself into merely nodding. His distaste was more for the contents rather than Mycroft’s attempts to use it cathartically. He didn’t like things that upset his husband just in general. At least Mycroft wasn’t in a state to do anything about it currently, so his scolding could wait.   
“We all want the best for you both, Greg,” John said, bring Greg’s attention back to his other side.   
“I know, mate. It’s just hard, you know?”  
“Yeah.” 

Greg decided to spend the next while simply playing with Rosie. She was contented to laugh at his funny faces, or when he tickled her belly. It was a refreshing change. Sherlock remained stoic by his brother’s bedside, and Greg couldn’t help but think of the times he’d seen Mycroft doing the same for Sherlock after a drugs episode. He could tell that Sherlock had things on his mind, but was afraid to voice them. Greg guessed that it was difficult for John or Sherlock to have a private word with either of them, given that Greg couldn’t get out of bed for more than a toilet break(even that was still assisted at this stage) and Mycroft was still immobile.   
“Our parents have respected my instructions to keep away for the time being,” Sherlock addressed Mycroft. “Father is quite worried, and as for Mum… well, she hasn’t said much, which is obviously an indication that she is still taken aback from the information presented and does not question the validity of your issues any longer.”   
Mycroft closed his eyes slowly. It was still terribly embarrassing to remember, but at least there wasn’t a hurricane awaiting him once he left the hospital. Hurricane Violet could be devastating. He was left to wonder just what it was that had convinced her to change her opinion; surely his loss of control wasn’t enough to instigate it. He had the distinct feeling that everyone in the room (Rosie aside) played a role in calming that storm, and he was grateful. He opened his eyes again when he felt a hand close over his own. Sherlock had reached over and grasped his hand, the one not still holding his book.   
“It’ll be ok, Mycroft. You don’t have to worry about them anymore. They shouldn’t be a problem now, and if they are, that isn’t _your_ problem. We’ll take care of it. You just focus on getting over this.”   
Sherlock spoke with concern and affection, a tone of voice that struck a chord in Mycroft. He moved his hand slightly to press his thumb against his brother’s. Sherlock smiled down at him. A strange kind of relief spread out through his body; it was like being given permission to be unwell, without any hint of expectations placed upon him. He hadn’t really believed it, honestly, from Sherlock — there had always been a sense of him constantly failing to meet the ‘big brother’ image he’d help create; it wasn’t acceptable for him to not only be struggling, but breaking entirely. Mycroft could see now that Sherlock cared only for his wellbeing, without consternation about the situation.   
“How about you go say hello to Uncle Myc?” Greg asked Rosie in a sing-song voice. John smiled and took her from him, and walked around to the space before Mycroft.   
“Here, we’ll put this up on the beside table for now,” John muttered as he took the book and pen out of Mycroft’s hand. He then sat Rosie on the mattress, shuffled a chair up close to the beside, and took a seat to observe.   
Mycroft wanted to smile at the girl’s excited face, but couldn’t bring himself to. He was glad that some of the darkness seemed to be clearing at least. Rosie mumbled incoherently at him, before reaching to grab his nose. It had been one of her favourite things to do since the first time Mycroft held her.   
“My My My!” Rosie exclaimed, happily patting Mycroft’s face.   
“Yes, sweetie, that’s Mycroft,” John sung with a proud glee on his face. She’d only started being able to make words, and had decided that both Sherlock and himself were ‘dada’. He’d yet to have a conversation with Sherlock regarding their preferences for names, since it’d likely be easier in general to assume different terms. “Don’t hit him, though… he doesn’t like that.”   
Rosie gave a few more forceful pats of her hands upon Mycroft’s face and shoulder, and then snuggled herself up against Mycroft’s chest. He always had loved holding Rosie against his body, particularly feeling the weight upon his chest. It seemed to fill the emptiness that he carried, and spread relaxation throughout his body. He could swear that his mouth twitched into a smile as he wrapped his arms around the child’s form. Rosie mumbled ‘My’ a few times softly before settling into a doze. Either she had exhausted herself earlier in the day, or she found his presence equally calming. Mycroft liked to think the latter.   
“She’s really grown attached to you, hey Myc? It’s nice,” Greg said, not really able to see what was happening. He truly loved that his husband was bonding with a child — it made his heart warm. “What have you two been up to lately? G-rated, please, for Myc’s sake.”  
“Haha, yes, we don’t want to traumatise him further,” John chuckled.  
“Ohhh,” Greg called, “so there _is_ something traumatic being had.”   
“Shush, you bastard. We can talk at the pub when these two aren’t around. Can’t really do tea without eavesdropping anymore, sadly.”   
“It’s fine, John.” Greg gave them both a knowing look and a raised eyebrow. Sherlock looked indignantly back at him.   
“I forbid you to disclose our sex life to Lestrade!”   
“That’s Lestrade-Holmes, mate,” Greg reprimanded with a grin.   
“Really? Congrats mate! I’m happy for you!” John exclaimed, and surprisingly, Sherlock nodded his agreement.   
Mycroft tried to focus on the pleasant things around him: his husband’s pride in taking his name, Rosie’s body against his own, his family in the room caring about him. He still felt the icy depression in his gut and it wouldn’t leave no matter how much he tried to focus on them. For some reason, it was becoming overwhelming. In a way it was better, having the emotions shift from his stomach to his chest… like it was getting closer to being released and the pressure dying down. Distantly he was aware that his eyes had started to water, and the shaking in his hands had started up again. He could feel the tension rise in his body beyond his control.  
_No, not now… not while Sherlock and John are here. Please… please wait until they’ve gone. I can’t handle them seeing another breakdown; I don’t want them to see the emotions gushing out.  
_ “Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, suddenly concerned, noticing his brother’s change in being.   
“What’s happening?” Greg asked, straining to try look over. It was pointless, since Mycroft still lay on his side with his back facing him.   
“Something emotional,” Sherlock responded. He didn’t know how else to describe it. He was still fairly new to it all. “Mycroft, it’s ok, you don’t have to pretend. It’s baffled me why you would do so thus far, however I concede that—”  
“Sherlock,” John interrupted, “relax. Some quiet might be best now. Mycroft? Do you want us to leave for the moment?”   
Mycroft nodded. John returned the nod, and plucked his dozy daughter out from Mycroft’s arms. If he knew Mycroft at all, he knew that he valued privacy regarding his personal issues — no matter how plastered in front of people they became. Some time with just Greg to hopefully work through the anguish would be best. He knew as a doctor that it was progress, but it would still be difficult. John reached for Sherlock’s hand, since the detective wasn’t giving any indication he was going to leave the room, and pulled him up gently.   
“Greg, we’ll come back later on. Maybe in a few hours, ok?” John said as he approached the door.   
“Thanks mate,” Greg answered, worried. He took a deep breath and shuffled himself so that he lay on his side as well, facing Mycroft. He yelped a few times, but he didn’t care. He needed to be able to see his husband.   
Mycroft jumped at Gregory’s cries of pain. Once the door had been shut, he exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding and began to cry in earnest.   
“Mycroft, love… please face me.”   
Mycroft shuffled and twisted, turning to face Gregory. His features were contorted with a mix of pain and concern, and it only made Mycroft cry harder. He felt the gentle touch of a hand upon his cheek, and a thumb swiping at the tears.   
“It’s ok, dear. This happens. This is good, yeah? Let all those emotions out.”   
“It hurts,” Mycroft croaked. His voice was harsh from disuse.   
“Oh, I know, hun, I know… you’ve been through so much.” Greg was trying to be supportive, but couldn’t hide his relief at hearing his partner’s voice once again.   
“I can’t stop it.”   
“Myc, you’re not supposed to stop it. You’re not supposed to control it. No matter how hard you try hold up this dam it’s going to break. Just let it out, and then relax cause you’re not having to carry the weight of all that water afterwards.”   
“The thoughts,” Mycroft sobbed, “I can’t stop the thoughts. I-I don’t w-want them, and I feel like a horrible p-person to even—”  
“Shh. No, it’s ok. I understand.” Greg ran his fingers through Mycroft’s auburn-ginger hair. “Thinking dark things doesn’t make you a horrible person. You just have to talk to me about it, instead of doing anything, you hear?”   
Mycroft sniffled and nodded. He wanted to blurt out everything, _all_ of the thoughts and feelings, but he had no idea where to even begin. He still desperately wanted to know why, _why_ , he was plagued with them in the first place — but knew he had to accept that, like the omnipresent anxiety, they just were. Gregory continued to stroke him softly, much like Mycroft had when their roles were reversed.   
“Want to tell me about them?”   
Mycroft nodded. He did… but he needed help; some kind of direction. Was he supposed to slowly work his way up to the really bad things, or just lead with the worst? He tried to remember the things Gregory had told him during his depressive times, just to try think of how to broach the subjects.  
“How about I ask you some questions and you can just answer and go from there?” Greg asked, sensing his husband’s frustrated confusion. He moved his hand away from Mycroft’s head and slotted it into his palm. “Do you feel like hurting yourself?”   
Mycroft went red and nodded. “Yes. I-I don’t know why; it’s just an inexplicable urge.”  
“It was like that for me too. It was just there suddenly and then one day it wasn’t enough and seemed pointless.”   
“You felt… did you…?”  
“We have talked about this Myc, but yes. I know your mind isn’t really up for remembering things at the moment, so don’t worry.”  
“Since we…?”  
“No, not since we got together. I stopped not long after starting, since I was just complying with the urge and using it to cope with the emotions, but then devolved into… you know.”   
Mycroft hummed and nodded. He was glad that he hadn’t missed Gregory desperately needing help but failing to be there to provide it. “I… I feel that as well; but not, at the same time. I don’t understand it, and it just reinforces the reasoning that I’m a monster.”  
“Oi, no. No calling yourself that. Feeling like you wish to end it all just to escape these emotions that seem to have no end doesn’t make you a monster. But it will fade away, love. It seems like it’s all just gotten worse because of going back to Sherrinford, but please try to remember how things were before that. You’d made great progress and things were looking up. You have to try focus on that, and know we’ll get there again.”   
“It’s not that,” Mycroft confessed. “The monster part is because… because I feel I want to try, but to be stopped. I don’t want to end it; I don’t want to leave you. But I don’t understand how I could be so cruel as to want to put you in that position again.”  
“Ah,” Greg vocalised. He cleared his throat. “Well… I can understand how you’d think of it that way. I know there’d be lots of people who would think badly of someone feeling those things. We just have to look at it in this situation, and not liken it to a teenager making empty threats for attention.”  
Mycroft sunk into himself and tried to hide his face. Gregory tutted at him and pulled his chin back upwards, looking at him with those warm caring eyes. Mycroft shook his head almost imperceptibly.   
_No, you don’t have to make excuses for me, dearest. I deserve the scolding._

Greg took a deep breath, and gave Mycroft a gentle kiss on the forehead. “You’ve been alone your whole life. You were the only person you had to depend on growing up, and you had to do it in silence. Your parents were terrible, and still are to this day. Everything you did in your life was for those you cared about, and your sense of ‘I can, therefore I should’, without consideration of your own wellbeing. You never got the opportunity to break down at all, let alone be cared for whilst doing it. And now, you have someone that _is_ there. Someone who _would_ notice if something was wrong. Craving that, after so long of it being neglected for you, is not being a bad person. You know how valuable it is to have someone be there for you, and so don’t take it for granted like many others do. You’re not screaming for _more_ attention, you’re desperate for _some._ Reinforcement that you’re not alone anymore.   
“It’s more showing me that you want to stay with me, that you don’t want to actually die, by telling me you feel the urge to try but be stopped. It’s the only compromise your mind can make between the desperation to escape the torment, and determination to stay with me. It’s not you being a monster, dearest Myc, it’s you hurting but wanting to cling to me and get help to stop hurting. You can trust me to know what it’s like to feel those things. My emotions got messy in the hospital, and when leaving it, because of that conflict. Please, love… you just need to talk to me. It’s ok to feel like this, but it’s not ok to do something about it. You can come and crawl up against me bawling that you wish you could jump off the roof and not have to go through this all over again… but you cannot — and I mean it — you cannot actually go up there. Do you understand the distinction I’m trying to make?”  
Mycroft nodded. He didn’t feel he deserved Gregory’s kind words, but he was immensely grateful for being told them. It really did help dull the shame that had overwhelmed him for the emotional conflict existing at all. Gregory kissed him on the forehead again.   
“Good. I love you, Mycroft, and I wouldn’t survive without you. It’ll be tough, but we’ll get through this. And you can take everything that happened before this as proof that we’ll succeed. We’ll work through this shit, and then be able to just walk away. Have a happy life, just us, yeah? What do you think about that? Cause that’s what you gotta focus on… the reasoning why you want to get through it.”  
“I… I want to be a father, Gregory.”   
“I— what?” Greg swallowed and blinked a few times.   
“You said a happy life of just us… but I don’t want that. I want a little one with us.”   
“That’s—”  
“You had said you wanted children in the past, so I assumed—”  
“Mycroft, shush! I’m just in shock, don’t rationalise yourself. Of course I bloody want to be a dad! I’d be hugging you so tight you couldn’t breathe right now if I could and not potentially puncture a lung. It just came out of nowhere, a bit, is all.”  
“My interactions with Rosie has proven that I do desire fatherhood. It is ineffable, but I want it regardless. I never realised until actually caring for Rosamund that my aversion was because of Eurus, not all children. Now that Sherlock is proving I didn’t fail to raise him, and that Eurus is no longer a concern of mine…”  
“I understand. But, and please don’t take this the wrong way dear, I think we should wait until you’re in a better place.”  
“Oh, yes, of course, darling. I was not intending to drop by the maternity ward on the way out. I simply wanted to state my intentions, and a big part of the future I would like to work towards, if you are amenable to that.”   
Greg smiled warmly and looked at Mycroft fondly. He gave him a kiss, slow and passionate, and then rested his forehead against Mycroft’s. “It’ll be my honour.”


	31. Painfully Honest

Mycroft hadn’t improved, but he was at least amenable to talking more often. Greg was glad that he could notice more progress with his own injuries; he was able to make short walks with crutches and sit upright for extended periods of time. He kept trying to ask his husband questions about how he was feeling, since Mycroft wasn’t very good at bringing up the topic of not coping. Greg could understand that; the man hadn’t ever been allowed to present as anything other than fine. Of course it was going to be difficult to continually initiate conversations with being unwell. 

It had been three days since admission, and Mycroft had spent those days attempting to write out in his book the events of Sherrinford to conclusion. He’d just finished writing his escape the first time. Gregory had said on multiple occasions that it wasn’t doing him any good, since each time he wrote he’d break apart. But Mycroft had to disagree each time; he felt like there was a physical action to take that would lead to improvement. He preferred having something rigid and structured to do that gave hope of things getting better; he was desperate enough for any hope. All the uncertain ‘up in the air’ nonsense of therapy just made him unsettled. He still tried to participate with the therapist or doctor, whomever visited him, but the idea of ‘things will improve when they do’ made him as unsettled as a mathematician answering a philosophy question.  
The anxiety had returned stronger than before, almost like it decided to increase its attack just to rise over the deep depression that had gripped Mycroft. He was left jittery most of the time, shaky, and fragile in every sense of the word. He had even given up trying to stop himself from behaving in that manner — an indication that he was truly exhausted. Gregory remained supportive, as did Sherlock and John. Still, he couldn’t help feeling embarrassed when he’d lose track of a conversation mid-way through (even if he was the one talking), or when he’d suddenly feel so overwhelmed for no reason that he’d drop everything and curl up. It felt like an electrical storm in his brain was causing misfiring neurons with each lightning strike. 

The doctors had informed Greg that he was well enough to go home and recover. He was hesitant, since Mycroft clearly wasn’t. He’d shut down their suggestions of sending Myc to the psychiatric department. He couldn’t deny their reasoning that he needed the help, but he insisted that it’d only make the situation worse. Instead, they were preparing him a guidebook of sorts to help give him some idea as to how best to help his husband once they were home. He was yet to tell Mycroft about it, and decided that the part about the guidebook was best left unsaid. Greg wanted to wait until after having a conversation with John to spill the beans, as it were, about his (and, subsequently Mycroft’s) discharge.   
As it happened, John was visiting with Sherlock. They had left Rosie with Mrs Hudson, thinking it would be better to have some serious conversations without having to have their attention divided. Greg appreciated the forethought. He kept trying to catch John’s eye, but the doctor seemed too focused on Mycroft and Sherlock. It was both endearing, that he cared for the Holmes brothers that much, but also concerning. He could see John’s ‘doctor gaze’, and the concern on his face wasn’t comforting. It was understandable, but Greg still disliked seeing evidence that Mycroft wasn’t going well at all. He felt at a loss how to help.   
“John? Can we talk?” Greg whispered, having stood up and approached his friend.   
“Hm? Oh, yeah, sure. Sherlock? I’m just going for a walk with Greg.”   
Sherlock hummed in response, nodding. He recognised that he wasn’t invited, but was pleased to be given a chance to remain with Mycroft. As much as he loved John, and in a way Lestrade ( _Lestrade-Holmes, Sherlock_ ), there were sometimes he wanted to be alone with his brother. He eyed the pair leave, and then returned his gaze back to Mycroft. He rubbed his face with his hands.   
“I’m sorry, brother mine,” he said softly. Mycroft was still sleeping; something he’d been doing a lot of recently. He’d gained some weight from the stress lately — it was always something Sherlock had liked to poke fun at in the past, but he was now recognising it as the pain it was for his brother. While some people, like himself, lost weight in times of stress and emotional turmoil, his brother had always gained. It wasn’t Mycroft’s fault, nor was it a sign of gluttony that he’d often insinuated. He felt remorseful for insulting his brother enough to cause the body image issues on top of the other stresses.   
Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin whilst he observed Mycroft, who was jerking restlessly in his sleep. Exhausted, drained, clearly not resting while sleeping from nightmares, depressed,anxious, defeated… the words rolled through Sherlock’s brain like a train passing a station. He could read the fear from Mycroft’s twitching, the panic in his breath, and the anguish from the slight noises breaking through his brother’s mouth whilst he slept. Sherlock sighed again. Greg had told him not to wake Mycroft unless he started screaming, which in of itself was concerning that such had happened to that degree, but Sherlock felt intensely uncomfortable watching his brother in such torment.   
“Mycroft,” Sherlock spoke, hoping that just a little noise would wake him and he’d be able to argue that it wasn’t his fault that Mycroft woke. He reached out and held the slightly too pale hand, registering it was cold and sweaty. He dropped it instantly as soon as Mycroft flinched.   
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said immediately. Mycroft had jumped awake, panting, looking about frantically.   
“Sher… Sherlock…”   
“You were having a nightmare, brother.”   
Mycroft tried to calm his racing heart, and ensured that he took some deep breaths. His eyes floated over to Greg’s empty bed. “Gregory?”  
“He’s out for a walk with John.”  
“Oh.”  
“He’ll be back soon,” Sherlock commented, hearing the dejection in Mycroft’s voice. “How do you feel?”  
“…Terrible, Sherlock,” Mycroft mumbled. He’d not bothered lying about his wellbeing since arrival. At this point, it was rather liberating. Sherlock nodded gently to him. Mycroft didn’t say anything further. He’d been a lot quieter, not bothering with pleasantries to simply continue conversation. He just lay in bed, his eyes heavy, staring ahead. His body felt shaky still, and he remained feeling like the smallest things could make him snap. He was beyond hating it. He honestly still wanted to just take his life to end what it’d become. He clenched his eyes together and sighed. They remained in silence, aside from the subtle groan Mycroft elicited.  
“Greg would be devastated,” Sherlock said quietly. He could read the thoughts on Mycroft’s face. He’d not been able (or willing, perhaps) to hide his expressions.   
“Indeed, and that is why I am continuing to lay here.”   
“I— I know that it has seemed like I haven’t valued my life, Mycroft—”  
“Have you?”  
“Yes, of course—”  
“Your past would suggest otherwise,” Mycroft growled. Sherlock cleared his throat and shuffled.   
“Well, I can’t deny that. I have no intentions of presenting as being perfect. Please, let me finish,” Sherlock said quickly as Mycroft opened his mouth again. “What I meant to say was that even though I appeared careless with my life, I still valued its continuance. I have felt terrible, I have felt lost, and I have felt like nothing I did to myself mattered in the long run… but I haven’t ever felt the desire to end my life because of no longer wanting to experience the difficulties. Even when those difficulties made me make careless decisions which could have killed me.”  
“Is there a point to this, Sherlock, or are you attempting to brag?”  
Sherlock sighed. “I mean that I can’t understand what’s going on in your head, but I would like to. I-I cannot adequately help change something I can’t understand.”   
Mycroft looked at his brother’s sheepish demeanour, looking at the floor. It was rare that Sherlock admitted he didn’t understand anything without a sneer and a derogatory comment. Really, his brother looked…  
“Are you scared, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock nodded softly while swallowing. “Yes,” he uttered quietly. Mycroft tilted his head and narrowed his eyes inquisitively at him, clearly asking why. Sherlock took a steadying breath. “These thoughts are your own.”  
“As opposed to?”  
“The first time. Then… that was Eurus. Once it was done, the problem resolved itself. I wasn’t worried that… you’d… you’d try again. It was only a matter of coping with the trauma.”  
“Ah,” Mycroft said, understanding Sherlock’s concern.   
“Have you told them?”  
“Gregory, to a degree. Perhaps eluded to it when speaking with the doctor once.”   
“You shouldn’t keep that to yourself.”  
“What else is there to do? Broadcasting suicidal desire is not a smart move.”  
“Why not?” Sherlock’s voice was loud, but he couldn’t help it. He was afraid that Mycroft was back to hiding those intentions so that he could act upon them; a ‘smart move’ would be to get help if there was the desire to be helped.   
“Sherlock,” Mycroft said while sighing. He was tired and not feeling up to this kind of conversation. “Please leave it. I promised Gregory I would talk to him, and I will keep that promise.”  
“Greg won’t be around to watch you all the time.”  
“I don’t need to be on suicide watch, Sherlock.” Mycroft ran his hand through his hair. Perhaps ‘want’ was the more appropriate verb. His whole body shivered, and he just ended up shaking his head. He didn’t really know what he was disagreeing to.   
“Just… just remember, Mycroft, that you’ve already been through the worst of it now. You’ve proven that you can get better. You’ve overcome the issues with our parents. There’s just this last step to go, and I don’t want you giving up because you’re exhausted from how far you’ve come.”  
“One can still drown despite making it almost to the surface. Sometimes we get thrust so deep that there is no escape no matter how hard we try.”   
“Don’t— don’t say that, Myc. They may not be able to read you like I can; they can’t see how serious you are when you say it. But I can, and I’m worried. You don’t say things to be poetic or exaggerate to make a point. It brings me back to wanting to understand more because I want to help. I don’t see how asingle visit back to Sherrinford could cause so much damage… it makes me think that you were hiding these things beforehand. But I just don’t know. I need data, Mycroft.”  
“I’m not an experiment for you to manipulate,” Mycroft hissed. He knew he should appreciate his brother’s concern, but he honestly didn’t feel up to the conversation at all… likely because of how true Sherlock’s words were. Gregory couldn’t read him the same, and so couldn’t see that Mycroft’s hints and comments were actually a lot more serious and intense than let on.   
“If you call talking you out of actually doing something about these thoughts ‘manipulation’, then yes… I need to know more to manipulate you properly.”  
“Sherlock… I’m just… I’m _tired_.”  
“You have reason to be, but that doesn’t mean you have the option of stopping.”  
“I don’t want to.”  
“But you—”  
“I experience both, alright? As said at the beginning of this tedious conversation, I want to escape but I want to stay with Greg as well. It is a most unsettling conflict. I do not have the strength to fight against the part of myself that can’t face living—”  
“Not alone, no… but you’re not alone, Mycroft. You have to understand that. You’re _allowed_ to lean on us all the time as you get better. Not just occasionally, not just those peak moments of hardship, but _all the time_. I’m beginning to think that you were just suppressing as much as you could before the visit to appear better. You might have actually been improving, but it seems to me that you shoved a lot aside to maintain the image of doing better for Greg’s sake. That’s probably why you’d have those moments of ‘suddenly really not ok’; it wasn’t a burst of negativity overwhelming you, it was you taking a breath from shoving it all down.”   
“Then what does that tell you?!” Mycroft shouted, his body shaking and panting. Sherlock stiffened in shock. “Hm? You’re such a detective genius, so you tell me.”   
“It — it means that you still need to learn to—”  
“No, Sherlock, it means that getting better is a fantasy dependant on my strength to maintain it.”   
“Mycroft—”  
“Don’t, Sherlock. Just… don’t.”   
Mycroft curled up on the bed, tears prickling his eyes. Sherlock wanted to continue, he wanted to make sure his brother knew that he wasn’t alone in fighting his emotional problems anymore… but doing so was seemingly making things worse. He just wanted to understand; and to help, of course. He sighed, and looked down at the floor. Mycroft’s mental state meant he wasn’t in a position to see beyond his concept of the futility of fighting. That would have to be the first thing to change. He just hoped that this time, Mycroft would know that hiding things away to ‘deal with it himself’ wasn’t going to get him anywhere. 


	32. Positive Changes

“What’s up, mate?” John asked as they slowly walked out of the ward. Greg was managing well with the forearm crutches, but it was obviously very exhausting for him.   
“I needed to try talk to you without Mycroft hearing.”   
“Alright. How come?”  
“He’s… I don’t want him hearing my concerns,” Greg said, steering John towards the door to the courtyard.   
“You mean about him writing in his book?”   
“Not only that,” Greg grumbled. He still didn’t like Mycroft writing everything out because of how raw it left him each time, and Sherlock undoubtedly had told John as much. “It’s more to do with the things he’s saying to me. Really, I expect that he’s told me them in confidence, but I feel like I need to talk about them with a friend and don’t want him thinking I’m betraying his trust.”   
“I see,” John mused as they sat on a bench close to the doorway. “ _Are_ you betraying his trust?”  
“Well, yeah… I probably am, but there becomes a point when it’s more important to do that than to leave things be. I mean, at least with the physical symptoms, it’s not like a secret or anything. But with his thoughts—”  
“Expected to be private, I get it. I’m sure the doctors here can see the physical expressions of his condition, and so he shouldn’t get upset from us talking about it. But then again, it’s Mycroft; Mr Privacy himself.” John chuckled, and Greg grinned in response.   
“Yeah. He used to be, but I’m not so sure anymore.” Greg ran his fingers through his hair. “Since getting back, he’s been different. He hasn’t tried to hide things or pretend. He’s been overly protective of me, even more so than before, and hasn’t… it’s like he just doesn’t care what people think of him anymore, or isn’t able to care. That’s more worrying than him trying to hide things, since it says, to me, that he’s more shattered than before… like he’s given up.”   
“Over protective how?”  
“Oh,” Greg huffed as he smiled fondly, “just snapping and ordering doctors to take better care of me. Making sure I’m getting enough pain medication. Constantly asking me how I’m going. A few times, he’s been writing or doing something and then literally dropped it all the instant I’ve yelped in pain from pushing the boundaries too far.”  
John returned Greg’s smile. “Sounds nice, though. He really cares for you.”   
“Yeah, I’m not denying that. Nor will I deny enjoying it, either. But he’s not diplomatic about it like he used to, and he doesn’t give them his usual ‘do it or you’ll find yourself deported’ look. It’s more a desperate demand. A bit like Sherlock when he’s ordering doctors about.” Greg couldn’t help but laugh at the thought.   
“Yeah,” John chuckled, “His Majesty is a bit like that.” John’s laughter died down and he turned to face Greg with a serious face. “But that’s not what’s concerning you.”   
“No.” Greg looked down at the ground, and rested his elbows on his knees as he slumped forward. “For starters, he loses track of whatever it was he was doing after ordering people about. He’ll even stop midway through something and not remember what it was he was doing, and just curl up. He’ll seem alright for a few hours, and then he’ll be too depressed to move.”  
John grimaced and put his hand on Greg’s back. “It’s hard, mate. In a way, going back was worse than the first time. It would have triggered a lot, and he was already run down from trying to handle the trauma of the original incident. It’s no surprise that he is worse off this time. It’s not a case of getting used to it, it’s really more a case of being hit with the same force… he got knocked about the first time, and this time he was already compromised so it broke him. A bone can withstand a hit and be painful, but function while having weakness. A second hit makes it snap. But hey,” John said as he rubbed his friend’s back in response to the whimper he made, “that means he can heal up properly now, instead of just carrying on hiding the pain.”  
“I guess…”  
“And it also means he can’t deny getting help, which will make it easier on you. You won’t have to try carry his weight and worry for the times he’ll fall down without indication.”   
“John, I’m not concerned about myself,” Greg said sternly.   
“It’s a valid concern. You have to think about yourself too, you know. I know you guys had some trouble before regarding that. Both of you trying to put yourselves aside for the sake of the other, hm?”  
Greg shuffled uncomfortably in the chair, humming an agreement. “We worked out how to handle that.”  
“Yeah, and now you can reap the benefit of it.”  
“Alright. But, this isn’t really what I wanted to talk to you about.”   
John retracted his arm from Greg’s back, and mimicked his pose on the bench. “I’m listening.”  
“It’s Mycroft; he’s… I think he’s suicidal.” Greg slowly looked up at John to see the reaction. The doctor gave him a concerned grimace. Greg continued into the silence between them. “He’s said to me that he feels like trying to end his life, but that he wants to stay with me. I told him I’m always there to listen, but that he has to come speak to me. That he’s not allowed to do anything. I thought that it was just an immediate reaction to being back at Sherrinford, like a ghost of last time or something… but it’s not stopped, John. He’s stayed defeated and hopeless. He keeps saying things that really worry me… I don’t think he realises that I know what he’s really saying. I don’t know what to do.”   
“You don’t have to do anything, Greg. He’s in the right place to get help.”  
“That’s just it!” Greg snapped in a panic. “I’m being discharged today! They wanted to send Myc to the psych ward, which we both know would do more harm than good.”   
“I’m not so sure that’s true anymore, Greg.”  
“I’ve already told them he’s not going.”  
“Is that wise? If he really is suicidal, then the psych ward might be best for him.” John didn’t like to have to say it, nor did he want to see the anguish on Greg’s face from hearing it.   
“He needs me. I honestly don’t think that he’ll get better if thrown in to that environment. But the alternative is him coming home with me today, and I don’t know how to handle it. He’s promised me that he’ll come to me when he needs, but I don’t know if I can really trust his promises at this point. I don’t care if it’s just me being paranoid, because if I’m wrong…”  
John enveloped Greg into an awkward hug as the man started to cry. “Maybe it’s not as bad as you think,” John tried to comfort. “What if these thoughts are just casual passing thoughts that he’s voicing? I thought you said he wanted to be a father, and was looking forward to the future he could have with you? Wouldn’t that mean that he’s not as suicidal as you fear?”  
“John, it only takes a little bit of killing himself to end all the rest of the future. It doesn’t matter if these suicidal urges are a fluctuating thing; one time is all it takes,” Greg mumbled, trying to keep himself together.   
“I can see your point,” John conceded. He sighed. “Well, all I can think of is keeping an eye on him while he’s still mentioning these things. Sherlock and I can come around often.” He released Greg and continued to sit with his elbows on his knees.   
“I appreciate that, mate. I won’t be back at work for another week or more, so I guess we have a little time to see how things go once he’s back home. It’s just… fuck, I guess I’m terrified. The last time he came home from Sherrinford he actually attempted, and so it’s kinda stuck in my brain that he’s going to again. I worry that it won’t really be him doing it, that it’ll be that strange alternate-reality Myc who doesn’t understand consequences or logic.”   
“Greg, I’ll level with you. At the moment, he’s a typical nervous wreck. The kind that generally people do send to hospital for an extensive rehabilitation. It’s beyond PTSD at this point.”  
“Is there a positive amongst all of this?”  
“Yeah, just that it does get better. Things have gotten a lot worse for Mycroft in a very short amount of time, and that’d kick anyone down. He’s spent months trying hard to improve, to get well again, and just as it was starting to get anywhere he’s been thrust back down the hole. Can you blame him for feeling like he can’t face trying to climb back up again?”  
“No, but I never blamed him for it,” Greg retorted indignantly.  
“I mean, once he’s accepted that this has happened, it’ll be easier to face the prospect of working his way out. Let him get some strength back again, and then he’ll be in a better place to keep going forward. Don’t worry yourself sick over thinking the suicidal tendencies are going to be a permanent change. It’s serious, yes, but it’s acute.” John tried to give Greg a hopeful smile. “We’ll all be here while it’s a threat, but I honestly think he just needs some rest and time to get back into a headspace of being able to face fighting again. Who knows? Maybe things’ll progress quicker this time because of the things you’ve both learnt from last time?”  
Greg leaned back on the chair. John’s words had alleviated some of the tension in his chest, but the deep seeded worry was still there.“Gotta hope, I guess. Still, doesn’t change how dangerous it is right now.”  
“Yeah… kinda why I think he should stay here a while longer.”  
“But he won’t get to that ‘headspace’ if that happens. It’s the bloody chicken and the egg.”  
“Heh,” John huffed, “I never got that. Eggs were in existence a long time before chickens evolved.”   
“Oh, come off it,” Greg snorted as he shoved John playfully. “You know what I mean.” Greg’s jubilance faded quickly as another thought came into his mind. “Can I be horribly honest with you?”  
“Always,” John said in earnest.   
“I feel… angry, or bitter… or something… that Mycroft’s taking so long to get better. I mean I know I shouldn’t, I know that it’s not anything that can be changed or rushed; it’s just, it wasn’t that long for me and I can’t help but feel a bit of resentment that I’m stuck being the supportive husband for so long when it wasn’t like that when I needed someone.”   
Greg’s voice was small, and he’d sunk into himself while speaking. John frowned; not because of thinking Greg selfish, but because it seemed clear that his friend felt like he wasn’t as important. “Greg,” John started with a deep breath, “you know that the situations are very different, right? I mean, right after your attempt, you had a very big positive change in your life — Mycroft. He doesn’t have that. Sure, he’s got you like you had him, but it’s not a _change_. That’s the part that makes it different. You had no one, and then suddenly you had a man there loving you, caring for you… it meant that when comparing before you broke to after, there was a huge positive that wasn’t there before, and that’s something that really helps to fight suicidal ideation. When Mycroft compares now to before Sherrinford, he just sees the relatively peaceful and happy life he had with you, and then the constant pain, struggle, and anguish happening over and over again. The changes, right now, are overwhelmingly negative… it’s hard to keep trying when all you see is how much worse things are.”   
“I— well, that… that makes a lot of sense, really, but … but it’s not, is it? It’s not all worse now. These changes… they’re good. In the long run. It’s just the breaking to make the mosaic, and that’s a better end result, isn’t it?”  
“I don’t really know what you’re talking about with a mosaic. But you’ve said the key problem: _in the long run._ Mycroft can’t see the long run like we can, and we can’t force him to see it. We have to wait until he’s recovered enough to get some of that awareness back. If you think that he needs to be home with you to do that, then I trust you. I’ll help however I can.”

They returned to the hospital room, aware of how long they’d been sitting out. Greg was silent on the walk back, his mind swimming.   
_Positive changes. I need to find some positive changes for Myc to help with these suicidal thoughts, but what worked last time? No, Eurus doesn’t count; it wasn’t really him choosing that — it was just his psychopathic sister convincing him he should die, drawing on the emotional turmoil of the torture. But… there was that time back when we met. The positive change there was letting himself buy the things he wanted, like the fancy house. Being needed forced him to stay, like I need him now, but it was him not caring for the consequences and just doing what he wanted to be happy that was the positive change that improved the situation. Hm, what if…?_


	33. Demolition

“It’s a heritage-listed site, Gregory.”  
“So? It’s not like much is left of the original thing anyway.”  
“It hardly matters when it comes to the legislation, dear.”  
“Myc, I think this’ll be a huge help for you. It’ll be an actual thing to do that signals improvement, which is important to you considering your book and all. You said it yourself: it remains through time like your struggles—”  
“I did not—”  
“Paraphrasing, love. Anyhow, that stands to reason that you can be free of your struggles in your mind if it’s no longer standing.”   
“I— I do not disagree, and it is quite a intelligent suggestion. However, the law requires Musgrave Hall to remain. It may be restored, and lived in, but not torn down.”   
“Oh, come on Myc… you can’t tell me the government never got rid of other heritage-listed things when it served to better the country.”  
“Well, indeed… however this is not for the betterment of the nation.”  
“I disagree. If this will make you well enough to return to work, then it’s serving the Crown’s interests to flatten the damned place.”   
Mycroft paused and thought over the proposal. His husband’s idea did have merit, and he guessed it wouldn’t be all that difficult to orchestrate the actual demolition of the building. The real issue was convincing his parents to permit that to happen, and that was something he most certainly didn’t feel up to facing. His stomach flipped uncomfortably at the idea of talking with Mummy. He’d eventually gotten the full story of what had occurred at Sherrinford, and whilst he was pleased with his family jumping to his defence against her, he still felt embarrassed and shame. He was especially proud of Sherlock for his words. Proud and grateful.   
_Oh dear, Gregory is still staring at me. What was he saying? Am I supposed to answer a question?  
_ “You’ll have to forgive me dear, but could you please repeat your question? I seem to have forgotten it.”   
Greg sighed with a painful expression. Mycroft had lost track of their conversation again, and it was still worrying him that it was happening. He reached up and stroked his husband’s arm as they sat on the couch together. “It’s ok, love. We were talking about demolishing Musgrave. I said that you could get it done despite the restrictions because it’s of benefit to you, and you’re of benefit to Britain.”   
“Oh,” Mycroft said and cleared his throat. “Of course. I was considering how doing so would require my parents’ approval, as it is they who own the estate.”   
“Hm, that might be an issue. Sherlock said they were willing to do what they could to help, so presumably that means they’ll be open to the idea at least.” Greg tried to give Mycroft a warm smile, but the man still looked particularly depressed at the idea. He reached out and held him close, nestling the ginger head under his chin. “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to them. You won’t need to do anything, you hear?”   
“Thank you,” Mycroft’s voice was small and quiet. He was contented to allow Gregory hold him close, but remained aware of the healing ribs and thus held his weight up off his husband’s chest. They’d only been released yesterday, and so Gregory was undoubtedly still in significant pain… he didn’t need Mycroft to add to that. His heart lurched at the thought of the pain he had been causing for Gregory lately. The urge to end his life, to stop the struggle for himself and prevent further harm being done to Gregory, reared up once again. He despised that he was overwhelmed by that desire multiple times a day, and that each time, he couldn’t rationalise against it. No matter what flawed arguments the blasted voice used, logic never seemed to phase it. He screwed his eyes closed and spoke firmly in his head against the urge.   
_Killing myself would only impart so much pain upon Gregory that he’d try follow suit. I cannot permit that to happen. I’ve hurt him enough. Even if I have to suffer with these feelings myself, forever, it shall remain my pain and not his.  
_ “Love?”  
“Hm?”  
“What are you thinking?”  
Mycroft didn’t answer, but instead tried to bury his head into his chest. The silence that remained indicated that Gregory was not going to let it pass, and expected an answer — despite it being obvious he knew it from Mycroft’s hesitation. “I want to go to bed,” he said eventually.   
“Myc, it’s only eleven in the morning.”   
“I’m tired.”   
“Talk to me, please,” Greg asked in concern. Mycroft was trying to hide away again, to keep his suffering secret. He knew from last time that never ended up benefitting anyone, and he was determined to make changes from what he’d learned then. “You know hiding things away isn’t good for either of us.”   
“I — I don’t feel well,” Mycroft voiced. It was a start, and not necessarily wrong either; he was feeling slightly nauseous and shaky, and the colour had drained from his face. However, Gregory was apparently not contented with that meagre answer. He sighed. “The voices with their negative words are back in my head. I dislike that any thoughts of the future end up with the urge to stop it occurring.”  
“It’s alright, Sunshine. You don’t have to rationalise it or be ashamed. I know you know this, but I’m telling you again anyway. It’s hard. I’m pleased you’re willing to try my idea, since I think it will be a big step towards moving on. I know it sounds cliché, but these things really do take time. It’s not all going to be better right away. Just let yourself feel terrible for now, let yourself just come to me and talk about all the shit, and let it improve in its own time.”  
“That is very abstract,” Mycroft snarled inwardly. His resentment was for the impracticality of waiting, not towards his husband.   
“Yeah, well, so are emotions. We can do things to try help, like getting rid of Musgrave, but ultimately getting over depression and a cap on your anxiety is something that doesn’t have a timeframe. There’s no equation to solve this problem, I’m afraid.” Greg kissed the top of Mycroft’s head. “We just do what we can to help the process along.”   
“I don’t like it.”  
“Yeah,” Greg chuckled, “I don’t think anyone does. But I know it can happen.”

Greg held Mycroft for some time in a comfortable silence. The position he was in, unfortunately, did not remain as comfortable. “Sorry, gorgeous, but I have to sit up,” he said with a groan. “Do you want me to call your parents now about Musgrave? No point putting it off, really.”   
Mycroft swallowed uncomfortably, but nodded. The anxiety was gripping his chest over what the outcome would be. Or, rather, what his mother’s reaction was going to be. Gregory seemed to notice, and stroked his cheek with a reassuring smile. The sensation was instantly calming, and he closed his eyes as he leaned into the touch.   
“It’ll be fine. If she’s mean to you again, it’ll give me a good chance to bite into her.”   
“Why would you desire conflict?”  
“I don’t, but I never got the chance to yell at her for the Sherrinford visit.”   
“I believe there was more than adequate yelling done on my behalf,” Mycroft muttered begrudgingly.   
“Hey, you listen to me. There will _never_ be enough yelling on your behalf, not while I’m around.”  
“Gregory, that is not the compliment that you believe it to be.”  
“Hey,” Greg laughed, “lay off; I was hit by a car after all.” His voice was playful, and managed to wrangle a smile out of his husband.   
“Apologies.”   
“Forgiven.” Greg beamed at him. “How about you make some tea while I call your parents?”   
“Certainly. Do forgive me if I remain absent for the duration of the call.” Mycroft leant forward and pecked a quick kiss on Gregory’s lips before standing. He’d been more than happy to act as the ‘hands’ since they’d arrived home, given that Gregory was still heavily reliant on the crutches. It made him feel at least somewhat useful. He slowly walked out of the living room and into the kitchen, where he idly stood staring out of the windows into the garden before beginning the tea. 

Greg reached for his mobile, and drew a steadying breath. _Civil,_ he reminded himself. He needed their agreement, for Mycroft’s sake, and so couldn’t lash out. He scrolled his contacts and found ‘Holmes Parents’, electing to call the landline in the hopes that Siger would answer the phone. He knew that really, Violet was the one he needed to convince, and thus calling Siger’s mobile would give her the wrong impression. He wasn’t game enough to call her mobile, however. The tone rang, and was answered with a cheery female voice. _Wait, what?  
_ “Greggy! I’m so glad you called! How are you doing? Feeling alright? How’s Myc?”  
Greg’s brain blanked, and he made a guttural noise into the receiver. He pulled the phone away from his face to make sure he’d pressed the right contact. The ID still said ‘Holmes Parents’. He blinked.   
“Greggy? Are you ok?”  
_Sherlock. Fucking Sherlock._ He sighed in annoyance; Sherlock had decided to have fun with his phone again, this time by deciding to swap his mother’s number for his parents-in-law’s number. No doubt it was supposed to be a shock when dialling his own mother to be met with Violet Holmes instead, and so he guessed the git had done it a while ago.   
“Hello, Mum. Sorry, got distracted.”  
“You got distracted before you even spoke on the call you made? Dearie, you might need to go in for a check-up.”   
“No, Mum, I’m fine. Just… something else. Never mind. Yeah, I’m doing ok; still a bit sore and the crutches are a bugger, but other than that, I’m healing well.”   
“Oh, I’m so glad to hear it! And your husband?”  
“He’s… er… less well.”  
“Awh, the poor dear. He wasn’t in a good state at all when I saw him, no.”   
Greg cast his mind back and remembered that the last time his mum had seen Mycroft, it was in the hospital immediately after the accident. His mother was also very protective of Myc, loving him like a son. She’s not cope well knowing the extent of his husband’s condition. Maybe it’d be best not to let her know how much worse the situation had gotten. Although, the idea of setting his mother onto Violet Holmes was an appealing one…   
“No, he wasn’t. Some stuff happened since then though, Mum, and it’s taken a toll on him. He’s not in a good place.”  
“That’s terrible! It’s really not his month, is it? Nor is it yours! My baby being smashed by a car…”  
“Mum, I’m almost fifty—”  
“Yes! Speaking of that, Greggy, when’s the party? I would like plenty of notice, please, but of course I’ll be there.”  
_What?_ “What? What party?”  
“Your fiftieth of course! Don’t tell me you haven’t started planning it.”  
Greg once again found himself having to use his brain more than he expected to. “Huh,” he uttered with surprise, “that _is_ coming up, isn’t it?”  
“You forgot?”  
“Oi, I’ve had a lot on!”  
“Yes,” Betty chuckled down the line, “I know, lovey, I wasn’t mad. May’s just around the corner, though, so you’d better get a move on.”  
“I— I’m not sure having loads of people over would be a good idea for Myc at this point.”   
“I understand, but do talk to him about it. You only turn fifty once, you know.”  
“Mum, you only turn anything once,” Greg said with a flat tone. His mother laughed in response.   
“Always the smart one. Even if it’s just family; so you and Mycroft, and probably his brother and his little doctor as well. That’d be plenty. With me and Marge of course. But a nice do with everyone who loves you would be amazing… I’m happy to organise it for you!”   
“Don’t let John hear you call him little, Mum,” Greg warned playfully. “You might find yourself with a colonoscopy referral.”   
“Duly noted, Greggy. Anyway I had better let you go and get back to whatever it is you’re up to. It was so nice of you to call! Love you.”   
“Yeah, love you too Mum. Talk soon.” 

Greg hung up the phone and looked at it in mild bewilderment. Not only had he just called his mother by mistake, but said mother didn’t even notice that there hadn’t actually been a point to his call. Mycroft appeared in the doorway while he still contemplated the bizarre situation.   
“That went far quicker than I anticipated, I have not yet— Gregory, what is it?” Mycroft was only part-way through making the tea, expecting a far longer conversation, but heard his husband’s voice stop prematurely and so came to investigate. Gregory was looking up at him with a most peculiar expression.   
“Um… I think we’re having a party in a few weeks.”   
Mycroft pursed his lips, confused. “If that is a euphemism, it is a poorly chosen one.”   
“No, I mean… literally, my mother and Marge are coming in a few weeks whether we are ready or not, expecting a party.” Greg tried to give his best ‘sorry but it’s happening’ look.   
“Oh, dear, it is your fiftieth birthday soon.” Mycroft flushed red at having forgotten such an important milestone. “We are indeed severely unprepared.”   
“That’s what she — no, hang on, you want to have the party?”  
“But of course; it would not do to _not_ celebrate half a century of Gregory Lestrade-Holmes, the most wonderful man alive.”   
Greg blushed and gave Mycroft a coy smile. “Flatterer,” he mumbled with sparkling eyes. “In all seriousness though, we can just have the family over for cake. No need to make a big thing of it; I don’t want to overwhelm you.”   
“We can discuss it at a later point in time. I must attend to the tea, and you have not yet — say, why _did_ you call your mother instead of mine?”   
“Ask Sherlock,” Greg grumbled with a smile. Mycroft gave one of his signature dramatic eye-rolls. “I’ll make the call now, love.” Greg pulled up the contact ‘Mum’, hoping that it would be the right number, and dialled. He was, at least, in a much better mood for the conversation. 

~

Mycroft sat at the table, nervous. Gregory was still on the phone to, presumably, his mother. He couldn’t make out the conversation, but he could hear the changes in volume enough to know that there was still tension between Mummy and Gregory. He waited whilst drinking a cup of the tea, knowing that he’d have to brew some more for his husband once he was off the phone. Mycroft couldn’t wait that long, and had made himself some for the meantime.   
Eventually, Gregory’s voice died down in the other room, and Mycroft assumed the conversation was reaching an end. His stomach twisted in knots. He desperately hoped for a positive outcome, but all of his past experiences told him that wasn’t likely. He stood and went to put the kettle one once again. It boiled just as Gregory fell silent. His hands were shaking enough that he spilled water over the counter as he poured his husband’s cup.   
“Well,” Greg announced as he entered the room, “that’s done now.”   
“It sounded most arduous,” Mycroft mumbled as he focused on the teacup.   
“Yeah, even when trying to be nice your mother is a handful.”   
“Tell me about your conversation. Have a seat, the tea is ready.”   
“Great, thanks.”  
Gregory nodded and hopped over to the seat, gently lowering himself down and placing the crutches aside. Mycroft picked up the cup, but found that his hands were still shaking too much to hold it steady. He narrowed his eyes at the tea, but it didn’t stop the tremors. The cup dived to the floor, shattering. Mycroft made a whimper and covered his face with his hands.   
“Oh, love,” Greg called out. He gave Mycroft a pained and sympathetic look. “It’s ok, just leave it there. Come sit and rest a bit; we can clean it later.”   
“But—”  
“No, honey. It’s just broken china. It doesn’t matter. Now come here.” Greg had swivelled around, and reached both arms up into the air. Mycroft shuffled towards him, and leant down into the embrace. Greg softly stroked up along his back. Once Mycroft had settled a bit, and had stopped shaking so much, Greg released him to take his seat at the table. “It’s ok. The phone call went well really. In the end, your parents agreed to permit Musgrave’s demolition.”   
“Oh. That’s unexpected. Good, of course, but unexpected.”   
“Yeah. It is. So once you get whatever paperwork organised that they need, they’ll sign it. I even negotiated that you don’t have to see them while they do it.” Greg rubbed his thumb over the top of Mycroft’s palm as they held hands. He hoped that it would be a smooth operation from here on out, but knew that the universe rarely enjoyed making it so easy for them.   
Greg didn’t say anything further, and just let Mycroft sit thinking to himself for a while. Honestly, he wanted some tea, but he wasn’t about to bring that up. He lacked the means to get it himself, and Mycroft wasn’t up to facing the broken mess on the floor. Greg’s eyes blew wide as an idea struck him. “Sweetheart,” he said, “would you mind bringing me my laptop?”  
Mycroft didn’t bother asking why; he just nodded and left. Greg smiled. He’d been wanting to get Myc back into doing art, since that had helped a lot last time, but Mycroft had said he didn’t feel up to it. Greg could understand not wanting the pressure of performing up to previous standards, but he still wanted something to occupy his husband’s mind and time that was positive. He’d just found the perfect answer to the conundrum. All he needed was to do some shopping online, and make a phone call to Anthea. 


	34. A Sun in the Sky

Mycroft stood at the stove, carefully adding the last of the chopped vegetables to the stir-fry. Gregory was behind his right side, gently nuzzling against his neck. He found the proximity very calming. Despite enjoying taking an active role in caring for his husband, he couldn’t stop feeling wrung out from even the most minor of activities — including things such as unloading the dishwasher or making the bed. He still felt anxiety take over in uncontrollable, and unexpected, waves; and the periods of depression hadn’t eased up in intensity either. At least, he tried to tell himself, he felt able to _try_ resist _.  
_ “You managing alright?” Greg asked. He had taken to asking at random intervals, as Mycroft still didn’t state openly if he wasn’t ok — but would respond honestly if asked.   
“Currently, yes,” Mycroft answered. “Manageable.”   
“That’s good.” Greg kissed the back of Mycroft’s neck, and smiled at the visible shudder.   
Mycroft gave the meal a quick stir, and then turned around to face Gregory. He smiled and slid his arms around Gregory’s back, eliciting a deep moan from the man. “A bit better, now, I think.”   
“Agreed,” Greg mumbled, leaning forward into the embrace and pressing his body up along Mycroft’s. He hated that he couldn’t reciprocate the hold, having to keep himself upright with his hands instead, but he enjoyed the intimate moment none the less.   
“You know I haven’t actually been able to feel happiness for a while, but having you pressed up against me is more than I thought I could feel,” Mycroft hummed into Greg’s ear.   
They’d talked about Mycroft’s anhedonia, and lack of sexual desire, and so hearing Myc’s words were a surprise. Greg knew he likely wasn’t wanting to go anywhere beyond the current situation and Greg wasn’t going to push him — he couldn’t hide the reaction to Mycroft’s proximity, however, and so cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Myc, you know I’d never—”  
“Shh, darling. I know. I just… it warms me inside to feel you here, close. It is strange to feel like that and not want more, and I appreciate your consideration. In fact, I am a little surprised you are able, given your pain medication.”   
“It’s not strange, love. It’s feeling you’re not alone. That’s important, I’ll tell you now. Don’t feel bad about not wanting more; just cherish the closeness. You’ll get all the kisses and cuddles you need from me, and only what touches you want. Once you’re emotionally ready for more, I’ll at least be physically able to provide.” Greg chuckled at the end, looking down himself.   
Mycroft kissed Gregory on the forehead, then turned around to stir the wok. He had a fleeting desire to lean backwards again into the hardness he’d felt growing before. He quirked his eyebrow, but continued to prepare the meal.   
_Perhaps it won’t be a long time coming after all, my dear Gregory._

Greg had insisted that Mycroft leave the dishes for the following morning. He knew Mycroft preferred a clean kitchen, but the man looked wrecked. He had trouble keeping his eyes open, was swaying occasionally, and it seemed as if merely breathing was an effort. Greg reminded him that he was still recovering from a serious toll on his system, and therefore it was ok to have a night of dirty dishes on the sink. The fact that he’d relented so easily had shown Greg just how exhausted Mycroft really was.   
They snuggled in bed together; Mycroft curled up in Greg’s arms and cuddling the fluffy pillow himself. Greg nuzzled his shoulder and peppered kisses on his neck, ears, and shoulders. Mycroft made pleased humming noises at the contact. Greg continued his soft stroking with his thumbs upon Mycroft’s skin, and soon he had drifted off to sleep. Greg was exceedingly grateful that the nightmares weren’t terrible. Mycroft would shift a lot, and wake often, but he wouldn’t scream and thrash in the night. A lot of it was to do with Greg’s continued contact, he’d found. He believed that Mycroft being so completely worn out also had a part in it. He was glad that his presence was helpful. 

~

Mycroft looked upon the large box upon the kitchen table curiously. The note merely indicated that Anthea had brought it in, which alleviated his concern about strangers in his home, but he couldn’t remember having asked her to deliver anything. He fetched a knife from the kitchen and slit the tape holding the box together. The contents only served to make him more curious. As he began pulling out the tiles, he noted that they were all different. Not only that, but they were a remarkable mix of hideous blues and yellows, with a mirror and an orange one in for good measure.   
Greg walked in whilst Mycroft held a tile in his hand, wearing an extremely confused frown on his face.   
“Dearest, are we redecorating?” Mycroft asked, sounding hurt that he could have forgotten.   
“Brilliant! They arrived!” Greg exclaimed, and hobbled over quickly to inspect the items.   
“I — er, that is to say — I know that I am not myself at the moment, but I still find it difficult to believe I agreed to even order these samples,” Mycroft said uncertainly.   
“You don’t like them?”   
Mycroft looked upon the tile in his hand. It was a blazing yellow, translucent with an opaque coating on the back. He swallowed, unsure how to break it to his husband who was clearly very happy with the arrival. “They are not unappealing in their own rights,” he said slowly.   
“And together?” Greg asked with a grin.   
“Together? You mean to say you wish to use a combination of these?”   
Greg laughed at the poorly-veiled disgust in Mycroft’s voice. He’d had his fun, and decided to tell Myc what the idea was. “Yep,” he chirped, “all of them. That’s why I picked them, you know. Don’t worry sweetheart, I’m not going to turn the ensuite into an eyesore that even the colourblind would hate. This is for our new art project.”   
“A-art project?” Mycroft stuttered. He thought he’d told Gregory he wasn’t feeling up to producing anything yet? “What art project?”  
“Relax, hun. It’s ok,” Greg said, and ran a hand up and down Mycroft’s back which had stiffened considerably. “It’s just an idea I had that I wanted to surprise you with. It’s not a stressful thing, don’t worry. Just something I think will help. You said you didn’t feel up to the pressure of maintaining a standard, but you haven’t done a mosaic before and so there’s no standard to live up to.”  
“A mosaic?” Mycroft asked, incredulous. The muscles in his body had relaxed a little from Gregory’s touch, but he still remained anxious. He hadn’t done anything like that before, and new things always made him uncomfortable.   
“Yep. We’re going to make a metaphor. Well, the one we’ve been using. I think it’ll be good. It’ll occupy your mind and give us something to do, and it’ll be a thing we made together. It’s not going to be high quality or anything; it’ll be a bit broken, misshapen, and uneven… but it’ll be unique, and it’ll be ours. And that’s what makes it perfect.” Greg slid his hand down Mycroft’s arm and grasped his hand. “It’ll be something we can look at for years to come and remember how we got through the dark times together. How we were broken apart but together we picked up the pieces and made something better.”   
“You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” Mycroft uttered, his throat closing up at the emotion.   
“Yeah. I didn’t really go looking for the idea; it just came to me and it made so much sense. We’ve talked about this mosaic idea a lot before and I wanted to have it as a real thing to show that we’re better now, eventually.”   
“It is a wonderful idea, my love. Thank you. I just… I am unsure how to construct a mosaic. I don’t want—”  
“Ah, no. None of that. We’re going to do this our way; damn however you’re supposed to do it. I’ve done tiling in the past, and I guess it’s not that different construction-wise. You can handle the more artistic side of it. Can you guess what I wanted to make?”  
Mycroft rose his eyebrows. He didn’t know Gregory knew how to tile. His husband was always full of surprises. He then looked at the tiles, trying to deduce what pattern Gregory wanted to make. He frowned when his mind wouldn’t cooperate. He trembled a little, eyes stinging, and shook his head.   
“Awh, no, sweetheart, that wasn’t a demand for you to be brilliant. It was just a playful question,” Greg said, trying to pull his sniffling husband in close with one arm and remain standing. “I want to make a sun in a blue sky.”   
“That — that would be logical, given the colours,” Mycroft mumbled, embarrassed.   
“Hey, stop being so harsh on yourself. You’re Mycroft Holmes, loving husband; not Mycroft Holmes, smartest man alive.”   
Mycroft sunk and turned his head away. “I used to be both,” he muttered.   
“You haven’t lost that big brain of yours, love. It’s just… gone offline for repairs. You can’t expect a computer to run perfectly fine if you’re fixing up the mainframe. Once you repair that, you’ll be even better.” Greg pulled Mycroft down to kiss his cheek. “Give it time.”  
“I’m sick of giving it time!” Mycroft snapped, his anger flaring. He instantly regretted it, and slumped once again. “Sorry. I’m just… it’s—”  
“It’s ok, that’s what it is,” Greg interrupted. “No more pressuring yourself to fit expectations, alright? Those expectations are part of the past, part of the old you. They’re — they’re one of these,” Greg said as he lifted a tile, “and they’re going to be smashed away to let something better take its place. We’re going to have some breakfast, and then we’re going to get out a marker — there should be one in the box — and we’re going to write on these tiles all of our problems that we need to improve. Everything that held us back, everything that was hurting us. And then we’re going to go out into the yard and shatter them. All of those things… they’re going to be broken and not hold us back anymore. Then, you and I, together, we’re going to pick those pieces up and make them better.” Greg gripped Myc’s hand tighter as he spoke, determined. Mycroft looked at him and nodded.   
“That sounds good. I’d like that,” Mycroft whispered, and leant in to hug Gregory close. “You are completely, utterly, and incomparably amazing, and I love you with all I have.”  
“I love you too, my Sunshine. You mean more to me that you can know right now.”


	35. Break These Barriers

Mycroft stared at the array of tiles before him. He’d been assigned the yellow ones by Gregory, who took the blue. He did try to argue that blue suited him better, but Gregory was adamant that he got yellow for being his Sunshine. It was hard to refuse him.   
“I’m not sure how to do this,” Mycroft mumbled.   
“You just write down things, anything, that has held you back in the past. Something you want to be free of and improve in its absence.”   
“I-I don’t know…”   
“Would you like me to start for you?” Greg asked gently, placing his hand over Mycroft’s. His husband nodded slowly, his posture slumped.   
“Stupid self can’t even write on a tile,” Mycroft muttered. “I don’t know what you see in me. It’s not like it’s my looks keeping you—”  
“Ah, no,” Greg forcefully interrupted. “None of that.”  
Mycroft looked up and saw the abject anger on Gregory’s face. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m not feeling particularly brilliant about myself. Having to think about my flaws tends to do that.”   
“The point of this isn’t so much to think about your flaws, but to think about the things you’d be better without. So, for instance,” Greg said as he picked up the mirror tile, “I’d write this on this tile, and when you smash it, you can break its hold over you and start to move on.” He scribbled ‘ _Negative Self Image_ ’ on the back of the tile, and passed it over to Mycroft.   
“Appropriate,” Mycroft commented upon reading the text. “However I fail to see how breaking this will solve the issue.”   
“It’s not a solution. It’s just to get in a mental state of fixing yourself for a better future.” Greg grasped Myc’s hand and squeezed it gently. He smiled and nodded softly, trying to be encouraging. Mycroft took a breath and nodded back to him. 

After an hour, which felt like three to Mycroft, they had written on all of their respective tiles. Mycroft had aligned his in neat rows, in alphabetical order. Gregory had a chaotic mess before him. It made Mycroft slightly uncomfortable to look at, but he knew that it was just the nature of his husband.   
“You did good, Sunshine.”  
“Are you sure we can really move on from so much?”   
“Yeah, I think we can. Once we start, it’ll be easier to more. And it’ll be a slow process, giving us time to do one and then another. Some are more important than others, and some won’t ever really be gone, but just won’t control us anymore.”   
“Mhm,” Mycroft nodded, and looked down at his ten tiles. Gregory had helped him decide which things to write on his tiles, as he’d managed to come up with a list of twenty-three. _‘Anxiety’, ‘Coping Alone’, ‘Expectations’, ‘Iceman’, ’Negative Self Image’, ‘Obligations’, ‘Pleasing Parents’, ‘Self Neglect’_ , and _‘Sherrinford’_. All reasonable, he decided, and some were definitely things he was going to have to manage rather than escape. It was slightly confronting, to see them glaring up at him en masse.   
“Gregory, you should lay your tiles out so that you can at least read them,” Mycroft said as he peered over to his husband’s pile.   
Greg complied, shifting the tiles so that Mycroft could read them. He only had eight, having given his mirror one to Mycroft. He felt that was fine, however, since Mycroft had more things he needed to break free from at this point. _‘Self Neglect’_ was there twice, but that was a prominent issue for both of them. “Yours are a bit more involved than mine,” he commented, looking between the two sets. “But that’s ok, it’ll give me more of a chance to help you along with it all.”   
Mycroft read Gregory’s tiles. _‘Depression’, ‘Overworking’, ‘Self Neglect’, ‘Letting Things Bottle Up’, ‘Resentment’, ‘Insecurities’,_ and _‘Hiding Emotions’_. “Resentment, darling? I wouldn’t have thought that would afflict you to that degree.”   
“It’s something I’ve tried hard to work on for a large part of my life. I know I won’t ever stop. I never liked that it was part of who I was. Being angry at others who complain about things I wish I had. Being hurt that people were oblivious and remained that way. Being upset that I was always expected to forgive without it being reciprocated. It’s full of anger, and hatred, and jealousy… and I want to be rid of it. It’s happened a few times, hun, where I have felt resentment towards you and that makes me feel sick.”  
Mycroft frowned as he saw the anguish on his husband’s face. “You never talked about it before,” he said softly.  
Greg grimaced, nodded, and held up the tile that said ‘ _Hiding Emotions’_. “I thought you picked up on it a bit, honestly.”  
“Only the things you had a right to feel resentment over.”   
“Finding that line is difficult,” Greg mumbled, his face red. “I know sometimes I let people walk over me more than they should, your brother was offender number one in that regard, but I prefer that to overstepping that line.” 

Mycroft was silent for a time, before collecting up his tiles. He’d thought that this was something that Gregory had orchestrated solely for his benefit; it was now clear that his husband needed this as much as he did. Somehow, that made it better. “Come,” he said, “let’s take these out and break them. Time to be rid of these burdens.”   
Greg stood up and hobbled to the glass doors leading to the garden. Mycroft collected the tiles and followed behind. As if reading the situation, the sun peaked out from behind the clouds. Greg smiled at the yard, now warm and inviting. Mycroft opened the door for him, and they ventured out onto the path. “It’s a nice day for it,” he said, looking about.   
“Indeed. Is just here suitable?” Mycroft asked, standing in the large open paved area near the pond.   
“Perfect. Actually, I think I am going to sit on the bench while we do this. Join me?”   
Mycroft’s eyes flickered up to the tree, ensuring it was free of flying devils, and then nodded. They took a seat in the middle, pressed up against each other, with the tiles in their laps.   
“Is there something we need to say to do this? Also, I am marginally concerned about injury; the shards will be sharp.”   
“Heh,” Greg chuckled, “that’s you, alright. Always thinking ahead. I was just going to drop the tiles and pick up nice looking pieces. I suppose we really should get a container to put the shards in, and possibly wear gloves to pick them up.”  
“Possibly?”  
“Alright, certainly. Do you mind going to get them, love?”  
“Not at all,” Mycroft answered, standing and pressing a kiss to Gregory’s forehead.   
Greg remained sitting in the garden, eyes closed, just listening to the world around him. He took a deep breath. The wind rustled the leaves in the tree above him, the small fountain babbled away, and some birds chirped nearby. It was almost as if he could forget he was in London, and instead surrounded by the peaceful countryside. No busy streets, no crows of people, no murders to solve or international crises to avoid. Just him and Mycroft, relaxing on a lovely spring day together out in the quiet. Life had gotten very intense for too long, and even though Greg hadn’t been stuck at work as well, he felt like they could use a holiday. A holiday from the traumas of life rather than the monotone stress of work. 

“You look more relaxed than I’ve seen you in some time,” Mycroft said as he returned to Gregory laying back in the bench. “What were you thinking about?”  
“Just you and me, getting away from London and the shithole that has become our lives lately.”  
“Crude, but accurate. Perhaps you would enjoy celebrating your birthday out of London? Anywhere in particular take your fancy?”   
Greg sat up and looked at Mycroft. “Really?”   
“Certainly. I would advise informing your guests as soon as possible, in order for them to save the date. We can select a location, and hold the party there, and remain an extra day or two for just us if you like. Be sure to include that we, of course, will compensate or provide transportation.”   
“But Myc, I don’t want you to suffer for it. You had to lay down after cleaning the breakfast dishes this morning; no, that’s not a criticism of you, it’s just evidence to show that I don’t think you’re up to a party.”  
Mycroft frowned and looked down at the tiles in his lap. “I want you to have a nice fiftieth,” he said quietly. His hand brushed over the ‘ _Expectations_ ’ tile. “But you are right to call me out for believing I should be able to cope because that is what is expected of me. Honestly? I don’t think I would manage to stay socialising around so many people for so long. I want us to be there, though, out in the country with friends and family to celebrate,” he whined. Gregory squeezed his hand, the one not holding the tile, gently as he closed his eyes. “So you know what? I’m going to anyway. Like this.” He opened his eyes, looked at Gregory, and then tossed the tile upon the ground.   
Greg watched as the orange shards of the ‘ _Expectations_ ’ tile scattered, his eyes wide in shock. Mycroft continued to stare at him with a determination that would have scared him in another situation.   
“I’m going to go, have a good time with you, and take breaks when I need. The people whose opinions matter in my life already understand the situation and won’t blame me for taking time out when it’s too much. I’m not going to devoid us of a celebration because I can’t let go of the expectation to appear as fine and socialise all of the time.”   
Greg let a smile break out over his face. He nodded, and intwined his fingers through Mycroft’s. He leant forward and kissed him gently. Mycroft shivered, and then leant his head on Greg’s shoulder. Slowly, Greg reached for the tiles in Myc’s lap and searched for one in particular. He said nothing as he found the one he wanted, and pressed it into Mycroft’s other palm. His husband looked down at it and rubbed his thumb over the words, ‘ _Coping Alone_ ’; he smiled, nodded gently, and kissed him in return. Greg watched as the tile struck the ground, cracking into large fragments. “Part of that will be me not hiding my emotions from you,” Greg said, tossing a tile from his pile onto the ground. It bounced rather than shattered, which caused them both to laugh.   
“It seems that will be a challenge for you,” Mycroft commented. He passed the gloves over to Gregory so that he could safely pick it up and try again.   
“It definitely will. All of these will be. Just gotta try harder.” His second attempt was more successful.   
“But, beware of trying too hard, darling.” Mycroft pointed to the ‘ _Overworking_ ’ tile.   
“Are you going to tie all of these into a single meaningful conversation? I had rather imagined us just having fun destroying things,” Greg said as he threw the tile against the pavement. He chuckled.   
“If you wish. I suppose it already is meaningful. I am unaccustomed to breaking things, however.”   
“You always had to be the silent, perfect child. You never got to make a mess. You didn’t get to just throw a tantrum and break things. I think you know which to toss out next,” Greg said with a gleam in his eye. Mycroft nodded to him, and lifted up the ‘ _Pleasing Parents_ ’ tile. It was the translucent yellow Mycroft had found in the box and been horrified to think it would find a home in their house. Fitting, Greg decided. He grinned more than he should have when the tile shattered. 

They rid themselves of the tiles one by one, occasionally talking briefly about why they needed to break it, until there were only two left. The same two: ‘ _Self Neglect_ ’.   
“Together?” Greg asked, his hand still nestled in Mycroft’s.   
“Together,” Mycroft agreed.   
They threw the tiles at the ground, watching the pieces scatter about and mingle with the assorted fragments before them. They then spent a few minutes just looking at it, letting the emotions run over them. Greg cuddled up against Mycroft’s body, uttering soft words of praise. Mycroft leant his head upon Greg’s as they sat in the dappled light, contentedly tired.   
“It’s time to pick up the pieces,” Greg announced.   
“Oh how poetic you sound,” Mycroft chuckled. “You should write a book.”   
“I’ve thought about doing that, actually, but I’m shit at making sentences.”   
“I can always assist you.”  
“Yeah, that might be nice one day.” Greg stood and pulled the container out. “Try to grab the larger pieces. A few small pointy shards are ok, but we mostly are looking for the chunky ones.”  
“Yes, I would estimate anything smaller than approximately a square centimetre would not be appropriate,” Mycroft answered as he started fishing through the pieces.   
“I don’t see any square shapes, but there’s lots of triangle-y ones. Oh, no, there’s a couple here… but not enough to make the whole picture.”   
“Oh, my dear,” Mycroft laughed with affection, “you are adorable at times. It was a unit of measurement, not description of shape.”   
“I don’t have a tape measure on me, how am I supposed to measure them?”  
“No, you just… look at it and know.”  
“You might, perhaps, my startlingly handsome genius,” Greg said as he looked up, grinning broadly.   
Mycroft felt warm inside from the praise, but it was the sight of Gregory gazing up at him with adoration in the soft speckled light that melted him. He said nothing in response, and continued to collect the tile shards. He smiled to himself that he was having a good day. He hoped those would become more frequent from now on.


	36. Hold On To Me

Mycroft lay in bed with his head on Gregory’s chest, enjoying the warmth of his skin, listening to the gentle heartbeat below. Gregory was threading his fingers through Mycroft’s hair, and he found it extremely calming. They’d had a good day and made a lot more progress on the mosaic than Mycroft had expected. Gregory had, of course, knocked the mortar all over himself and had to go shower mid-way through. It was all in good spirits, still, as Mycroft teased him regarding using an inappropriate starching agent for his jeans. He had laughed in earnest when Gregory had responded, with a serious look on his face, ‘you usually love hard things in my pants’. 

“How do you feel, love?” Greg asked, looking down at Mycroft laying upon him.   
“Very content, albeit a little tired.”   
“That’s really good to hear,” Greg hummed, and ran his hand down to start rubbing circles on Mycroft’s bare back. “I’m also glad you took the time today to rest when it started getting too much.”  
“I am glad you joined me. I would not have been able to undertake any actual recuperating without your assurances and calming presence.”   
“It was nice.” Greg leant forward and pecked a kiss upon Mycroft’s forehead. “Are you up for continuing tomorrow?”  
“I believe we will complete the sun by the day’s end. I am surprised how quickly it came together.”  
“I’m not,” Greg rumbled, “since putting random pieces together to make a bigger picture is kinda your thing.”   
“I hadn’t considered it like that,” Mycroft said quietly. It was a good analogy of his work, really. “It certainly is less stressful than my usual outlet for that particular skill.”  
“Yeah,” Greg breathed, wanting to change the topic of conversation to Mycroft’s job. It was late, however, and Myc had actually had a good day for the first time since Sherrinford — he wasn’t about to spoil that. He closed his mouth.   
“You wish to discuss my work,” Mycroft said with a sigh. He shifted uncomfortably.   
“No, not right now; it’s ok, love.”  
“It is a valid topic of conversation.”   
Greg immediately heard the tone of Mycroft’s voice change. He decided to be a bit firmer in his response. “We can talk about it later. I only wanted to ask about your feelings and opinion on the matter. Let’s not make a good day have a bad night, yeah?”   
“You’re worried talking about it would send me into another downwards spiral,” Mycroft groaned. He hated that he was so predictable in that regard lately.   
“It’s not unexpected, love. Don’t think of it as a fault on your behalf. If I were to stand on my leg without the crutches, I’d be in pain and possibly fall over. That’s not my fault, is it? It’s just too soon for me to try walking on it. The same applies for you and your injury.”  
“It’s not an injury.”  
“Nope, I count it as one. Mental injury. You’ve had a serious accident up there,” Greg said, tapping Mycroft’s head. “And it’s going to take time to heal. Time and treatment. Don’t think of mental illnesses as lesser illnesses than physical ones. In many ways they’re harder.”   
“Your scolding always leaves me feeling better about myself. That’s quite the oxymoron.”   
“Yeah, well, I’m _your_ moron, so I don’t care.”  
Mycroft laughed quietly to himself, his body shaking Gregory’s below, who had joined in. He rubbed his husband’s belly softly while it shook with Gregory’s chuckles. “I love you,” he said quietly once the laughter subsided.   
“Even though I’m a moron?”  
“If even if you were.” 

~

Mycroft woke up with a jump, and registered that he was screaming. He fell silent, looking about the room in a panic whilst panting. He noticed Gregory beside him, stroking his back. His heart still pounded in his chest and his muscles felt sore but shaky. The next thing he noticed was that he was covered in sweat and it was making him cold. He still remembered most of the dream vividly. The most unsettling thing about it was that it might not have been a dream after all.  


“Myc?” Greg asked, his husband now seeming to register his surrounds. Mycroft had been stirring and talking in his sleep when he’d woken. He tried to calm him down, talking louder and louder, but it was to no avail. “You’re ok, it’s ok, it’s just a nightmare. We knew this could happen.”   
“It… what if… not? If… Eurus, she… planned?” Mycroft panted, his mind swirling. He then jolted, and plucked his phone off from the bedside table. His hands were shaking but he managed to press the number for Anthea.   
“Dearest, it’s three am. Don’t wake her,” Greg said softly, reaching out to try take the phone. Mycroft shook away from him, keeping the phone out of Greg’s reach. He looked panicked, but not in a panic-attack way; this was more like when he found out Sherlock was dying and he had to get to the hospital. It made Greg worry that he wasn’t properly awake, which given his broken speech, could be likely.   
“Eurus! Secure?” Mycroft snapped so quickly it was difficult to discern the words. He listened impatiently to the response, frustrated he couldn’t get the importance of the situation understood.   
“Myc, you were dreaming. Everything’s fine. Give me the phone, yeah?” Greg tried again to take the phone, but he resisted. Mycroft turned and looked into Greg’s eyes, and Greg was struck with how desperate he looked. He was awake, that was for sure, but aware was another matter entirely.   
“No! Extremely important. Give me everything. CCTV. Interviews. I have to be sure,” Mycroft said, his voice faltering.   
Greg took the chance and grabbed the phone out of Mycroft’s hand, and put it to his ear. “Anthea? Hi, it’s Greg. Listen, just ignore what Myc’s asked you; he’s had a nightmare.”  
“NO!” Mycroft shouted, giving Greg a painfully desperate look.  
“Alright, maybe in the morning when you start work,” Greg said into the phone, hoping the compromise would placate his husband. “Yeah, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Goodnight.”

Mycroft pursed his lips together, but then he started to whimper. “I need…” he uttered. His handsstarted shaking and tears welled in his eyes as he sat there, looking utterly lost.  
Greg frowned in concern and drew Mycroft in for a hug. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re drenched. It’s ok, I’m here. Just a nightmare. It’s ok to hurt from it but nothing is going to happen, you hear?”   
“I… I…” Mycroft wasn’t able to form words, instead grabbing onto Greg with crippling force.  
“Shh… I’ve got you,” Greg whispered, running his hand up and down Mycroft’s back. “Do you want to talk about it?”  
Mycroft nodded, but he didn’t know how to start. The beginning of the dream was already lost to the fog, but the ending was still clear. “Eurus,” he said simply, getting the topic out there at least. He felt shaken to his core just remembering it.   
“Mhm,” Greg hummed, pressing his lips to Mycroft’s forehead. “Was it the first visit to Sherrinford?”  
“It was not a memory, that I know of. In the dream, Eurus told me that it was real… that I would think it just a dream, but it was really a memory I am only being permitted to remember now.”   
“Hun, that’s your paranoia, your anxiety. I know you’re constantly afraid, deep down, that your knowledge is missing something. That you’ve got it wrong. That when it comes to crunch time, everything fails because you didn’t get it right. Your nightmares are going to reflect that. But you have to remember that it’s just your mind, love. It’s not a secret plot you’ve overlooked, it’s not something you’ve forgotten… it’s just your fears, and that big brain of yours being brilliant at scaring you.”   
“But what if it isn’t? I have done awful things, Greg, and I have made such terrible mistakes—”  
“No, none of that love. We’ve been through this. You did your best in an utterly shit situation.”  
“Doesn’t mean I won’t keep paying for those mistakes!” Mycroft shouted, not intending to raise his voice but being unable to contain his panic. He clung onto Gregory’s middle hard until he heard a gentle whine escape his husband’s lips. What little colour he’d regained drained from his face as the cold washed over him once again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”  
“’S alright, Myc, just still a bit tender. You’re in a panic; you’re not supposed to remember. I know you weren’t shouting at me.”   
“I ruin everything,” Mycroft uttered, the anguish clear in his voice.  
“No, you don’t. Come on, tell me what happened.” 

Mycroft took a few steadying breaths. He wanted to try and explain it as simply and as succinctly as possible, which meant getting it straight in his head and filtering out the unnecessary details. “I can’t remember how it started,” he said, “but I know you were involved. Then I was at Sherrinford, and Sherlock was pointing the gun at me. That’s where it changed from what happened to something else. Eurus started talking to me, about how I should have been shot, how I should be dead… a bit like how she spoke to me in the cell. But then she looked at me, like she was seeing me now, and said that I am going to wish I was killed after all. It rattled me. She smiled, with her cold eyes, and told me it was all part of her plan. The moment Sherlock didn’t shoot, she decided that I would kill myself. She made a back-up plan, though. That she’d watch as everything I cared about was torn away so that I end it all anyway by my own choice, not hers. She…” Mycroft drew a shaky breath. “She showed me the second visit. How she was still in total control, having deceived us all. How she was ‘coming to get me’, by… by…”   
Greg squeezed Mycroft tightly in his arms. He kept quiet so that Myc could keep talking once he’d regained some composure.   
“She killed you,” Mycroft whispered. “I came home after being given my final notice at work, effectively without a job anymore, to find you in the living room. Dead. She stood there, the knife in hand… I… she just looked at me, and said she needed to see how you worked. That you were… an anomaly, to love someone like me… and… god, Greg, the blood, your limbs strewn in pieces… I … I feel sick thinking of it,” Mycroft said with a shaky voice. He then sat upright, breathed evenlyand swallowed, in an attempt to keep from vomiting.   
“Jesus, Myc,” Greg breathed, reaching over to offer some comfort. “Your brain really goes all out.”  
“I’m terrified,” Mycroft uttered, his voice more timid than Greg had ever heard it.  
“You’ll have the stuff from Anthea tomorrow if you still want it, but Sunshine… it was just a dream. This isn’t all part of some elaborate scheme of hers to get to you.”   
“How can you know? How could any of us?”  
Greg didn’t answer, but just held Mycroft’s sticky head against his chest. “You’re not going to lose your job, love. It’s just going to be different now. Better suited to you. It’s a good thing, really. You don’t have to be afraid,” he said, knowing that it wasn’t the biggest fear Myc had, but it was something at least he could be sure about. “Come on, lay down a bit more.” 

Mycroft nodded, and shuffled so that he was laying with his ear pressed over Gregory’s heart. “Does this hurt?”   
“No, it’s fine,” Greg answered. In truth, it did hurt — seeing Myc so shaken, enough to need to hear his heart beating below him, was very painful; it just wasn’t the pain Mycroft meant.   
“I don’t think I can sleep. I can’t get the image out of my mind. It’s there when I close my eyes.”  
Greg sighed. “Yeah, I know hun. It’ll be like that for a while, when you see something traumatic. And it’s hard to distance yourself from it. I’m not trying to diminish what you saw, but being a dream it’s easier to put it behind you. When it’s a real thing you’ve actually seen, and are just remembering, it’s harder to move on from. The truth of what you see being reality makes it stick more. I guess what I’m trying to say is try not to worry — it’ll be there, the images and panic of it, and that’s ok… but it’s not forever.”   
“Does this happen to you often?”  
“Not anymore, but it did when I first started seeing these things. Sometimes there’s something really traumatic still — people can be monsters, you know. You just need to focus on something calming, something positive, that is around you in the present.”  
Mycroft nodded, his cheek sticking to Gregory’s skin and rubbing it uncomfortably. He cringed at the sensation.   
“Why don’t you have a shower, love? You’ll feel better.”   
“Will… will you join me?”   
The tone in Mycroft’s voice pulled at Greg’s heart. There was no way he could deny the man when he asked like that. “Certainly. Just give me a minute to get there.” Greg groaned as he sat up and moved his leg to get out of bed. Mycroft stood and moved the crutches into Greg’s hands. He lifted himself up, breathing heavily at the pain in his knee, but he shook his head to adjust. He caught sight of the bed in the dim light, noticing the dark wet patch on Mycroft’s side. “Probably need to change the sheets,” he commented, knowing how uncomfortable it was to go back to a sweaty bed.   
Mycroft flushed red and sunk into himself. “I’ll do that. Just… stay here while I do?”  
Greg nodded. He tried not to notice how often Mycroft’s eyes flicked up to make sure that he was still there. His heart lurched, wanting to just hold Myc until that uncertainty and fear all went away. The covers done, they headed into the ensuite to shower. Greg had a feeling that Mycroft was going to stay awake for the rest of the night, just reassuring himself that Greg was there and alive. He would have liked to have been able to stay awake, but his body still demanded a lot of rest and he knew he would fall asleep within a short amount of time. At least he didn’t need to be awake to assure Myc that he was alive, and so could still provide some comfort. 


	37. Before the Dawn

Greg had a case to look over from home, and so he elected to look at it while Mycroft prepared breakfast and lunch. They worked on the mosaic in the free time between meals. It was almost complete; while Greg was glad that it was occupying Mycroft a lot more than he’d expected, he was also wary as he had hoped it would take longer. The time component of healing was the more important part, not so much completing the mosaic itself.  
Mycroft had been extremely clingy and jumpy since his nightmare. He refused to enter the living room. Greg decided that he’d leave it for a day or two, and then if he hadn’t improved, he’d have to try help manage somehow. Greg hadn’t realised it early in the morning, still tired, when he’d wandered over to the coffee table to carry his empty coffee mug back to the kitchen for washing.His husband stood like a statue in an earthquake in the door frame. Mycroft was too pale and panicked to even scold him for putting weight on his knee, which said a lot. Greg had just kissed his forehead, and told him it was all ok. He knew better than to go back in there for a while. Mycroft continued to remain within two metres of him for the entire day. 

It was after dinner when Greg got a phone call from Sherlock. Apparently, the paperwork giving approval to demolish Musgrave had arrived. Sherlock wanted to know if he could come by and deliver them, but Greg was hesitant. His eyes flickered over to Mycroft, writing at the desk in their bedroom. It was only seven, but given that the lounge was off-limits for relaxing, they’d adjourned to the bedroom. He wanted to say no, that it wasn’t a good time. But, knowing Sherlock, he’d have to give a reason for it. He wasn’t sure if it was exactly a good idea to advertise the reason so blatantly. But, if he asked Mycroft instead, he knew that his husband wouldn’t say no even if it would be too much. He then was aware that he’d paused too long, and surprisingly, Sherlock simply said he would come around tomorrow instead. Greg hung up smiling, still proud of how mature Sherlock had become. 

“Sweetheart, Sherlock’s coming around tomorrow sometime to give the papers for Musgrave.”  
“Oh,” Mycroft answered, turning around to look at Gregory.  
Greg expected Mycroft to say he worked it out already, or that he didn’t want Sherlock to come. He didn’t expect the silence. “Is — is that ok?”  
“Yes, I believe so. Just… you aren’t going anywhere with him, right?”  
“No, love, I’m going to be here with you the whole time,” Greg said, trying not to let on how sad he felt at having to explicitly say that to Mycroft.  
“Good. That’s good.”  
“Hey, come here,” Greg said, patting Mycroft’s side of the bed. Mycroft obliged, nestling himself up against Greg’s side. “What do you think about getting Musgrave demolished soon?”  
Mycroft pressed his lips together. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I suppose there is little point in delaying.”  
“Yeah, but you need to do it when you’re ready to move on. Given today, I don’t think that’s the case right now.”  
“I had not considered that.” Mycroft shuffled so that he pressed his cheek against Greg’s chest. “It would hold more meaning that way.”  
“That was the point of doing it, love.”  
“There is something I need to have finished before I can move on,” Mycroft said quietly.  
Greg ran his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. He knew what Mycroft was talking about. He sighed. “I’m not saying no, but I have to wonder why it still helps you.”  
“I guess it would appear to do more harm than good, but it’s something that I’ve been doing my whole life. To make a fresh start, for that future we talked about — I would need to walk away from it all. Everything in that book. Everything Musgrave represents. I can’t leave it unfinished before walking away from it.”  
“I guess I can understand that love. I just feel a bit helpless at times.”  
“You shouldn’t. You help more than anything else possibly could.” Mycroft pressed his lips to Greg’s chest. “You are the light of my dark world, Gregory.”  
Greg could all but hear the unspoken words — _one I would be lost without_ — hover above them in the air. He gripped Mycroft tighter for a moment in a silent response.  
_Me too, Sunshine_.

~

Mycroft refused to sleep. He couldn’t bear to face that nightmare again. It had been all he’d seen every time he’d closed his eyes all day; he knew it was awaiting for him again in his dreams. The blood. The terror. The cold stare. Gregory had wanted him to try sleeping, but he’s blatantly objected. He’d told his love to sleep, that he would be fine — Gregory had obviously not believed him, but was powerless to deny his body the healing rest it craved. Ordinarily when Mycroft couldn’t sleep, he’d read, or he’d work. Sometimes he’d walk to a different room of the house to try and convince himself that he was headed to bed for the first time again. This time, Mycroft simply lay in the dim light whilst holding Gregory in his arms. He’d not asked for the light to be left on, but he hadn’t said anything, grateful, when his husband left it on for him. He didn’t know why he was afraid to sleep in the dark. He’d gone back to sleep after many a nightmare in the dark. It just seemed to shroud Gregory’s body in the unknown, the uncertain, and that entrenched panic deep in his gut. No — better to leave the light on, tonight.

His mind felt so cluttered. It often did, but it disturbed him more now than it had in the past. The fleeting thoughts, the memories that darted across his brain as if just flashes of reminders that the still existed… it was all very _loud_. He’d often preferred to remain in silence, or with gentle instrumental music playing, just because the noise in his head was already so overwhelming. He grimaced in disdain as mindless nonsense flooded his brain — random words, images, sentences —all coming and going as if carried along in a gust of wind Mycroft stood in the way of. He wasn’t able to ignore them, or prevent them. When he felt stronger, he usually was able to order the thoughts and only allow himself to really register those that made sense and were relevant. Since Sherrinford — the first time — he hadn’t had that capacity. It had improved after the first visit, but since returning from the hospital it had been a never-ending onslaught of nonsense flooding his brain. Without the ability to control the input, or the tangents his mind wandered off on, he lost focus on the world around him. He knew Gregory had noticed it. It was times like these, laying in the still quiet, that it became deafening and unbearable. There was no distraction; nothing to help get things calming in his mind.  
Briefly the thought came to him that if this was what Sherlock experienced day to day in the past, it was no wonder he turned to drugs to quieten the noise. Mycroft was already yearning for the sleeping pills, and it was only like this at night. He didn’t have to face the intensity like this in the morning, or indefinitely (he hoped, god did he hope…). It was a rare moment of understanding that Mycroft had regarding his brother’s careless habits. 

_Sherlock was visiting tomorrow. No… today. Later today.  
_ Mycroft found he was actually pleased that his brother was coming. In the past it would have been an annoyance. He was glad that his relationship with Sherlock had improved so much throughout the ordeal since Sherrinford.   
_We’ve both changed._  
Mycroft couldn’t agree that it had been for the better in both cases just yet, as his husband was fond of saying, however he could acknowledge that the changes did allow for them to get along much easier. There was more understanding and respect between them. He wasn’t even afraid of Sherlock calling him out on his, ashamedly unavoidable, nervous attachment to Gregory since his nightmare. 

Gregory stirred and mumbled, and returned to his soft snoring. Mycroft loved that sound, deeply and completely. He closed his eyes and snuggled closer to the warmth radiating from Gregory’s body. Once considered uncomfortable, his husband’s exuberant body heat was now something he physically needed to rest. He smiled at the memories from the early days of their relationship: Gregory complaining about his cold toes as Mycroft tucked them into the warmth behind Gregory’s knees, Mycroft being irritated that he was kept awake by the snoring, Gregory profusely trying to calm him down after being clobbered by a stray punch in Mycroft’s sleep. All little things that were difficulties to start with, but were so much a part of their daily lives now that neither could be comfortable without — the bodily harm aside. Mycroft often struggled in his sleep still, but his unconscious mind had managed to get an awareness of Gregory being beside him and not accidentally jerked in that direction. They’d had a good laugh when Gregory had returned the blow to the gut one night. His husband did tend to sleep sprawled out in many positions throughout the night; it was inevitable that Mycroft would occupy the same space as one of his limbs eventually. Thankfully it was a rare occurrence; Mycroft’s presence had calmed Gregory’s shifting about in his sleep as much as Gregory had placated the majority of Mycroft’s nightmares. That’s how Mycroft knew just how badly his sleep would have been since Sherrinford had Gregory not been there with him. 

The hours passed, and Mycroft watched as the light started to break through the curtains. The light danced over Gregory’s form, and he simply admired how gorgeous his husband truly was. He was handsome, that much was obvious, but he had so much more below the surface that made him a true gift. The peaceful expression on his face was much like his normally youthful smile; innocent, pure, and adorable. The morning light set his silver hair alight. It shone like it was truly made of silver; sparkling strands sticking up in all directions. Mycroft grinned as a line of saliva also shimmered in the morning light, running down the corner of Gregory’s mouth. He reached out and wiped it with his thumb and smeared the wetness on Gregory’s pillow. There was enough there for it to make little difference. It did not escape his notice that he loved this man so intensely, that the unsanitary nature of touching his drool was not even an afterthought. It was just a part of him, and he loved all of him. Besides, Mycroft’s mind reminded him, he’d touched a lot filthier.  
That thought opened the floodgates to many more associated thoughts. Admiring Gregory bathed in the morning light had been an easy start to the much dirty visions in his brain. He was surprised, really, that he actually reacted. He felt desire in his chest. Not just as a thought in his mind, but he _actually_ could feel it in his body. He rubbed small circles with his thumb upon Gregory’s chest. He couldn’t disturb his partner’s peaceful sleep, not even for affection. He was content to continue staring at his husband’s sleeping form in all its glory. 

He shifted to cuddle closer, eliciting a surprised exhale at the rush of feeling from his crotch as it brushed against Gregory’s leg. He swallowed. He hadn’t been aware he was getting that aroused, but now that he noticed it, he was definitely growing hard. The throbbing was somewhat unfamiliar, given how long it had been. His body seemed to agree, and flushed his mind with thoughts to arouse him further. His heart started beating uncomfortably in his chest and his mouth felt dry. He didn’t understand why he was suddenly overwhelmed with want. His body didn’t seem to care; it only told him that it had been neglected too long and that was to be rectified. 

Mycroft ran his hand over Gregory’s chest, his fingers light and draping over the skin. Grey chest hair ran through the gaps. He let his hand rest more firmly, and he felt the rigid pectoral muscle beneath his palm. He let out a shaky breath. His Gregory was so exquisitely muscled. He leaned in and pressed his lips to the exposed bicep muscle. It had always been very arousing for Mycroft, Greg’s muscles, and the idea that his husband was strong. His mind pictured those strong hands holding him tightly, and he shivered. He chanced another press of his cock against the hard muscle of Gregory’s thigh. A quiet moan escaped, his cock twitching in his pants.   
“Mmm,” Greg hummed. Mycroft stilled, caught. “No, don’ stop…” Greg uttered sleepily, his arms moving in search of Mycroft’s body without him opening his eyes. “’S nice.”  
Mycroft swallowed and moved in to nuzzle at Gregory’s neck, giving soft kisses between the puffs of warm air. His partner hummed in approval, stretching his head upwards to give better access. He extended his tongue, and flicked the tip of it against the skin below the ear.   
“Ouf, yeah,” Greg said, cracking an eye open. Mycroft repeated the action, and then licked with more of his tongue.   
“Love you,” Mycroft whispered into the ear pressed against his mouth. He ran his hand down from Greg’s chest and towards his belly. He grinned when he felt the muscles twitch involuntarily under his touch.   
“Oh, yeah, hmm, more.”  
Mycroft continued his slow sweep of his hand downwards, stopping when his fingers brushed the top of Gregory’s pants. He didn’t know why he hesitated. His husband helped by bucking his hips upward, forcing Mycroft’s hand to slip over the bulge in the fabric. He rubbed his palm over the erection a few times, looking down at it, before turning his attention back up to Gregory’s face and kissing him. Greg kissed him back lazily, which Mycroft enjoyed. It started soft, lips barely pressed together, and progressed to tongues flickering over one another and the gentle sucking of lips. Mycroft rubbed himself against Gregory again, unable to stop himself.   
“You’re so handsome,” Mycroft breathed, sliding his hands over all the skin he could reach. “I want you so bad.”   
“’S been so long,” Greg responded, moving in to kiss Mycroft again. “You sure you up for this?”   
Mycroft decided to answer with an undeniable fact, pressing his crotch up against Greg’s leg and leaving it there. His husband chuckled.   
“I guess so,” he said, before returning to kiss him. Mycroft shivered each time he thrusted his hips, slowly dragging himself up and down. Gregory ran a hand down Mycroft’s back, and Mycroft couldn’t help but moan and lay down for more. He licked at a nipple while his head was close by, enjoying the reaction it got. Gregory hissed and hummed, removing his hand from Mycroft’s back so that both of his nipples were accessible. While Gregory wasn’t as sensitive to touch there as Mycroft, he did enjoy some rougher attention. Mycroft pinched down with his teeth, and Greg gasped.   
“Can I…” Mycroft hesitated, willing himself to be able to talk dirty (or, at least, somewhat. He wasn’t very good at talking during sex). “…Straddle you?”  
“You can do whatever you want, gorgeous,” Greg said, more awake now and gazing at Mycroft.   
“I mean, well, it’s not going to hurt you, is it?”  
“Bugger that, if it does. I need you on me, now.”   
_Well, that was an enthusiastic response. Definitely not sleepy anymore._

Mycroft nodded, and returned to giving gentle kisses along Gregory’s chest. His hand snaked downwards again. Greg’s body tried to initiate contact, but was stopped by sheer willpower. Mycroft chuckled, feeling the tense jerking muscles, and draped his fingers over the now-hard bulge beneath the red pants. He teased for a few moments, his fingertips sliding up and down the length.   
“Fuck, Myc, it’s been weeks. No teasing,” Greg groaned, gripping onto Mycroft firmly.   
“Mmm, yes, hold me,” Mycroft responded, closing his eyes and focusing on the feel of Gregory’s strong hands.   
“If I could, I’d hold you tight and fuck you until you came screaming my name,” Greg said, aware of the sharp intake of breath from Mycroft, “but I can’t kneel right now. Get on me.”   
Mycroft obeyed happily, sliding his body carefully up until he was straddling Gregory. He rocked his hips a few times, their cocks sliding against each other through the fabrics.   
“Hang on, let me just—” Greg shuffled to sit more upright, moving some pillows behind him with Mycroft’s help. “There. Now I can hold you still.” He slid his hands up Mycroft’s thighs and rested them on his hips, holding tightly.   
Mycroft moaned again, rocking his body for some friction. “Want you inside me,” he gasped, “but that’ll take too long. Want you _now_.” He leaned forward so that he was inches above Gregory’s lips, resting his hand on the bed beside Gregory’s head. He kissed the swollen lips, sucking them again, while rocking his hips.  
“Lube,” Greg breathed, his hands shaking. “Need to feel you.” 

Mycroft pecked a quick kiss before sitting upright and reaching for the lube in the bedside drawer. Before he squirted some out, he removed his pants and Gregory’s as well, down to their knees. He then smeared the cold liquid over both of them. He wiped his hand with a tissue, and returned to his previous position. He slid his body along Gregory’s, their cocks sliding freely against each other and their bellies.   
“Oh, fuck,” Greg exclaimed, and gripped Mycroft tighter. He tried to pull him in closer as his abdominal muscles tightened, desperate to thrust.   
“Yeah,” Mycroft breathed, his nose touching Greg’s. “Oh, yeah.” He thrust forward and back, over and over, in a slow rhythm. It wasn’t just because he loved it slow; he’d come right then if he went much quicker. He could feel the desperate tension in his lower abdomen screaming to grab a hold of Gregory and fuck him hard. It was difficult to resist.   
Greg moved one arm up to Mycroft’s shoulder, and then grasped around his neck. He pulled Mycroft down for a forceful kiss, a brief one as he was panting hard, while using the other hand to grip Mycroft’s hip.   
“Hng, yeah, Myc, oh, more…”   
Mycroft adored hearing Gregory’s noises; they were a pure aphrodisiac to him. He leant forward, slipping his arms underneath Gregory’s shoulders, and pressed their chests together. He then thrust hard and fast, grunting and groaning each time.   
“Fuck, Jesus, oh god yes…” Greg shouted, unable to keep his eyes open as the pleasure and desire ran through his body. Mycroft had his head upon his shoulder as he ground into him, and his hot breath from the pants were loud in his ear. He could feel himself getting lost in the approach to climax; he held on tightly and ground up in time with Mycroft, his entire body was tense, his legs were shaking, and he couldn’t feel any pain in his body from his knee. There was only one thing in the universe: Mycroft’s body against his. Mycroft’s cock sliding against him. 

Mycroft was sweaty, his body exhausted from the exertion, but every cell he had was driving him onwards. His muscles were tense, his abdomen tight, and he could feel the orgasm approach as his balls tightened. He suddenly slowed, crying out as he came, spurting semen between them in pulses. He panted, still holding Gregory tightly, as the world stilled and there was nothing but the ecstasy of the moment.   
Greg still held Mycroft tightly, desperate for him to keep moving hard, but overjoyed with the feel of warm liquid coating his cock and belly. He thrust up into Mycroft, a sharp moan escaping the man’s lips each time, as he reached the edge himself.  
“Oh fucking fuck yeah, hmnnggg erhg yes…” Greg spurted as he spilled between them, waves of pleasure rippling over him. “God, that… that… fuck.” He couldn’t make sentences. He couldn’t make thoughts. There was only Mycroft’s hot body laying upon his, and the exhausted contentment he felt. He languidly ran a hand up along Mycroft’s sweat-slicked back, humming in pleasure.   
Mycroft was still trying to catch his breath. His body was so exhausted from the workout that it was sore — but it was an enjoyable sore. He distantly registered that Gregory also needed to breathe, and so slid off his husband to lay beside him. He kept his eyes closed but his arm laying upon Gregory’s chest. His husband moved, and he heard the pluck of some tissues. He then felt gentle hands wiping him clean. He merely hummed in approval. He cracked his eyes open to smile at Gregory.   
“Jesus, what a way to wake up,” Greg said with an adoring grin on his face.   
“I’m glad,” Mycroft spoke quietly. “Watching the dawn light fall on you did things to me.”  
“Well then,” Greg laughed, “always wake up before dawn from now on.” He lay back and hummed again in pleasure.   
“I didn’t wake,” Mycroft said, not aware of having said it until it was too late. He just closed his eyes, filled with a contented exhaustion. There was silence in his head, and warmth in his heart.   
“Then sleep now,” Greg whispered, pressing a kiss to his lips. “I’ll be here.”  
Mycroft hummed, cuddling up against Gregory’s body. He felt the blanket being shucked up over his shoulder, another kiss — this time upon his forehead — and then nothing as he willingly slipped into a peaceful sleep. 


	38. Relinquish Your Control

Mycroft pulled on one of Gregory’s shirts, his own green jumper, and some casual pants. He left his feet with just socks when he left the bedroom. He knew Sherlock was coming at some point, likely soon, but he didn’t feel the need to dress up in his armour anymore. There was nothing left to hide. It would have once filled him with anxiety to have met with his brother in any state less than immaculate. He smiled to himself at the change — it was nice, not to be worried about what Sherlock might read off him, even if the circumstances weren’t the best. Well, horrid, since he was making an effort to be honest. 

Gregory set about making them some breakfast until Mycroft shoed him out of the kitchen to sit down. Just because he could stand without the crutches for short periods, didn’t mean he should, he protested. He gave his husband a playfully scolding look when he lifted up the packet of bacon on the bench. Gregory gave him an innocent smile in return. Mycroft conceded to permit a single rasher, and received a cry of glee in return. He set about making the eggs that had been left out, claiming that he’d leave the yolk in for his complaining partner as compensation for lack of bacon.   
He removed a slice of the bacon and went to put the remainder away, but froze when he opened the fridge. A cold wave sunk over him. He slammed the door shut, but kept a death grip of the handle. He heard Gregory ask him if he was alright, but he couldn’t respond. He just tried to steady his breathing. Suddenly Gregory was by his side trying to coax him over to sit at the table; he obliged without question, shuffling and taking a seat. The adrenaline started to fade, and he could push the images that ran through his mind away. He focused on Gregory’s concerned face.   
“Steak,” he said quietly, closing his eyes. The cut of meat, the blood on the plate — the images ofhis dream, of Gregory’s body hacked to bits in the living room, had crashed into him like a bus, and then he was encased in memories of Eurus and Sherrinford.   
“Jesus, Myc, you’re white as a sheet. Just stay there, and close your eyes. I’ll get rid of it.”  
“Thank you.”   
He heard some movement in the kitchen, and several items be deposited into the bin. Then, the liner was taken out and Gregory limped to put it out into the bin outside. Mycroft wanted to take it off him, but he couldn’t seem to face getting close to the bin when he _knew_ what was inside it. Surprisingly, he wasn’t even ashamed of the reaction. He had, not long ago, done a lot worse. He felt Gregory’s hand on his shoulder, and so looked up at him. There was only concern on his face, no judgement or consternation. It was relieving to see with his own eyes even if he hadn’t thought otherwise. He smiled when Gregory pressed a kiss to his forehead.   
“I’m proud of you,” Greg said while holding him.   
“Oh?”  
“Yeah, you haven’t apologised for your behaviour. You didn’t hide it. Those are both really healthy things, and show improvement. You’re doing a good job love,” Greg said, and Mycroft knew there wasn’t a shred of condescension in his voice. He hummed.   
Gregory insisted that Mycroft ate the eggs, despite the protests. He knew that his husband was right, and the he did need to eat — his medication required food in the morning, and he’d taken them before leaving the bedroom. The last thing he needed was irritation of the stomach lining as well. He was grateful that Gregory had tossed the bacon before cooking it, and so there wasn’t the smell or sight of meat around him while he focused on keeping his eggs down. 

Once the dishes had been cleared, Sherlock arrived. Mycroft knew that his brother would take one look at him and deduce everything that happened in the early hours of the morning, and at breakfast. He honestly couldn’t find it in himself to care about whatever snide remarks Sherlock came up with. He remained seated at the table while Gregory escorted Sherlock in. He looked at his brother, noting the experiment with chalk and the rushed breakfast with his partner, but said nothing. Sherlock took stock of him as well, but smiled warmly at him.   
“It’s good to see you managed to rest well, brother,” Sherlock said, continuing to smile. He elected not to comment on the obviously recent post-traumatic stress incident. They all knew such would happen frequently, and so there was no need to broadcast it.   
“Hello, Sherlock.”   
“No Rosie today?” Greg asked, sounding a little put-out.   
“No,” Sherlock chuckled, “She’s with Mrs Hudson. She is taking her grandmother duties very seriously, apparently, and nothing will get between her scheduled time with Rosie.”   
Sherlock sat at the table with Gregory and himself, placing a folder on the table. Mycroft eyed it, feeling strangely intimidated by it. Gregory threaded his fingers through Mycroft’s, and squeezed supportively.   
“Thanks for bringing this over, Sherlock,” Greg said, taking the document.   
“Have you — have you been _tiling_ , Mycroft?” Sherlock asked abruptly.   
“Yes, Gregory and I have been working on an artwork. It is almost completed.”   
“You should see it, Sherlock, it’s brilliant. Do you want to?”   
Sherlock appeared hesitant for a moment. Mycroft could see how he normally would have declined, but seeing the excitement on Greg’s face made him consider that he should agree to keep his friend happy.   
“Very well, show me,” Sherlock grumbled, and followed Greg out into the garden. Mycroft stood and trailed them slowly. 

Sherlock was actually rather impressed with the mosaic, as far as Mycroft could tell. They returned to the kitchen, and Sherlock stood close to him and ask quietly if they could talk in the lounge. Mycroft jumped, and shouted ‘no’ so quickly that Sherlock flinched. He shook his head a few times.   
“No, not in there. Please.”   
Sherlock looked over to Greg in confusion. “Myc had a pretty terrible nightmare. We’re not going in there for the time being,” he explained. “But, dearest, you will have to face it eventually. I know it triggers a lot for you, but the longer you leave it the more it’ll become fixed in your mind.”   
Mycroft nodded as he swallowed. “I know,” he uttered quietly, “but not today.”   
“Walk in the garden with me?” Sherlock asked as an alternative. Mycroft registered that whatever his brother wanted to say, it was important and therefore he wasn’t going to get out of it easily.   
“Oi, you trying to get rid of me, just cause I can’t keep up with you?”   
“Yes, Lestrade, I’m taking the chance to flee while you can’t pursue,” Sherlock joked, and Greg chuckled.   
“Just… stay within shouting distance, yeah? I’ll make some tea. Leave the door open.”   
Mycroft knew that it was for his benefit, and not his husband’s, that the request was made. He looked at the floor briefly, before up at Sherlock, who had drifted over to the door to the garden, standing with his arm outstretched through the doorway. 

They walked slowly, listening to the crunch of their feet on the gravel. It wasn’t often Mycroft walked around the garden; his trips usually involved walking along the paved pathway to the courtyard, sitting on the bench and listening to the pond, and then returning indoors.   
“How are you, brother?” Sherlock asked, a little nervously.   
“Improving,” Mycroft answered honestly. “There’s still a long way to go but at least it’s not as bad as in the hospital that day.”   
“I’m glad. I— I was really worried.”   
Mycroft looked over to him. Sherlock focused on the pathway ahead, avoiding catching Mycroft’s eye, his face flushed. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, brother mine. I am grateful you care.”   
“I know we never really did this,” Sherlock mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Talking.”   
“Yes, and that is both our faults.”  
“Mm. You never talked, and I never listened. I would like to, though,” Sherlock said, flicking his eyes up to Mycroft.   
“As would I,” Mycroft answered, smiling a little. “Is there something you wish to ask me in particular?”  
“Just… I can still see it. The depression eating at you… the…” Sherlock hesitated, his eyes cataloguing Mycroft, “It still worries me. I admit I am glad to see some improvement, but I can still see everything else and I wanted to ask for your opinion on the matter before jumping to conclusions.”   
“I appreciate that.”  
“I can see how awful it would have been for you,” Sherlock said with a sigh, “watching me endanger myself with the drugs. Trying to help, and me resisting you so much. I’m sorry.”   
Mycroft didn’t respond immediately. He walked up to a bench instead, and sat down. He still felt exhausted very quickly. Sherlock joined him, leaning forward on his knees. “Thank you, Sherlock. I only wish it weren’t this situation to give you the understanding.”   
“As do I. Listen, if you need to talk about things—”  
“Gregory permits me to talk to him.”  
“Anything, Mycroft. Any time. Whether you’ve told him or not, or if you want someone else, or in case there are things you need to say without him knowing… it’s fine.”  
“You are starting to sound like Dr Watson,” Mycroft mused cheerfully. It still warmed him to think of his brother not being alone in the world anymore.   
“That’s expected to happen, when he’s the one I’m learning from.”   
“Learning, Sherlock?”  
“Yes, learning how to be a better man. He makes me want to be.” 

They sat in silence for some time. It never was uncomfortable, between them, to sit quietly. The world was always so noisy that having the peace of each other’s company without the need to fill it with more garble was welcomed. Sherlock sighed, and gave him a pained expression. Mycroft could tell there was still more Sherlock wanted to say, but let him get there in his own time. He didn’t have to wait long, however.   
“You need to give them to me, Mycroft.”   
Mycroft swallowed as his heart suddenly jumped up into his throat. “W-what?”  
Sherlock said nothing, but opened his palm in front of Mycroft. He felt his body start to panic.   
_How the hell did Sherlock know about that?  
_ “Why?”  
“Brother. I need you to give them to me.”   
Mycroft sunk down at that. Sherlock was being honest, and he knew if their roles were reversed, as they almost had been in the past, Mycroft would be doing the same. No, he realised; he’d be doing a lot more than asking nicely. He sighed and reached into his trouser pocket. “I wasn’t planning anything,” he rationalised as he placed the bag of pills into Sherlock’s gloved hand.   
“I know,” Sherlock uttered as he slipped the bag into his coat. “But it’s dangerous, Mycroft. You can tell yourself you aren’t going to, and then something happens and the temptation is too much. It only takes a brief instant, one lapse in judgement.”  
“It reminded me that I was strong enough to resist. That I did have the choice and I was choosing not to. It was… it was comforting.” Mycroft wrapped his arms around himself. His words sounded fairly hollow once he’d said them. Really, the comfort was from placating the demon in his soul that was tempting him to escape. It was similar, but not the same.   
“Then be comforted in knowing you’ve chosen.” Sherlock held onto his brother’s arm, immensely relieved that he’d gotten the pills without a fuss. “I think perhaps we keep this to ourselves. Greg is obviously worried and worn out enough as it is.”   
“I promised him,” Mycroft said distantly, looking at the gravel at their feet. “I should tell him.”   
“I suppose it is your decision, brother; I will say nothing to anyone. But I reiterate that I am here for you. I would urge you to contact me if you feel— well, if you need me. I won’t be as quiet if this happens again.”  
Mycroft recognised the subtle threat as one he’d made to Sherlock numerous times. He nodded. Sherlock stood off the bench, and offered his hand to Mycroft to take. He looked at it a second before reaching and holding it. While it was only helping him up off the bench, the symbolic gesture meant a lot to him. 

Once Sherlock had mentioned it, Mycroft couldn’t help but notice the stress his husband was attempting to hide. He frowned, knowing that hiding emotions was one of the things Gregory had promised to stop. It was likely he wasn’t aware he was doing it — a bit like how Mycroft didn’t connect his placating the dark voice in his head by carrying a lethal dose of pills with his promise not to cope alone anymore and share his thoughts. He suddenly felt guilty.   
“Good walk?” Greg asked from the bench.   
“Yes. It was… fruitful,” Mycroft answered as they each took a mug off the bench. Mycroft picked up Gregory’s as well, and carried it over to the table.   
“Fruitful, even? I didn’t know we had any fruit trees,” Greg chuckled. He patted Mycroft’s shoulder a few times at his groan.   
“I’ll… I need to talk to you later, darling.”   
“Alright,” Greg said with a frown, concerned.   
“Your mosaic is a good idea, Greg.”   
Mycroft shot Sherlock a thankful glance for the topic change. Gregory happily talked of the process involved and the meaning behind it, and Sherlock listened while sipping his tea. Mycroft held Gregory’s hand while they talked, topics changing too quick for Mycroft to keep up with. He didn’t mind, since he wasn’t paying that much attention anyway. He was lost in his mind, thinking how he was honestly glad Sherlock had noticed and asked for his stash. His brother was right: he _was_ comforted knowing that he’d actively chosen. Having it there wasn’t making a choice, really. It had been telling his mind that the choice hadn’t been made properly and completely. Now that it had, he felt slightly overwhelmed at the prospect of healing again. His husband was right, though; he had made good progress since leaving the hospital and it was progress that he wouldn’t have been able to have achieved without breaking entirely. He squeezed Gregory’s hand to thank him silently for all the effort he’d been putting in to help. 


	39. Here With You

Greg opened the door to 221B, walked in, and grasped Sherlock in a hug. Sherlock made a few noises, but relented and even reciprocated.   
“Thank you,” Greg whispered into the detective’s coat.   
“Always,” Sherlock answered, unsure what to say. Greg was still hugging him, and he wasn’t sure what to do in that social situation.   
“I mean it.” Greg released Sherlock and looked him square in the eye. “You’re a good brother, Sherlock. And a good friend. I feel terrible that I didn’t notice. I just expected him to come to me, I guess?”  
“Not unreasonable, given your commitments,” Sherlock rumbled, “but I would suggest occasionally confronting Mycroft about things like that in future, forcefully if needed. He seems to have inherited the family trait of hiding what is dangerous to oneself.”   
“Yeah, I will.”   
“What’s going on?” John asked, walking into the living room.   
“Just stopping by,” Greg answered quickly.   
“Right… well, it’s good to see you, yeah.” John smiled and shook Greg’s hand. He knew that the doctor was suspicious, but at least was willing to let it slide until Greg was ready to talk about it.   
“Myc’s sent off the papers today, so we should hear back soon if we can flatten the crap out of that hellhole.”  
“I grew up there, Lestrade,” Sherlock said while flickering an eyebrow.   
“Yeah, wherein your psychopathic sister murdered your best friend and constantly tried to make my husband next. You lived in trauma enough to block it from memory, Sherlock. It’s not a good place, and there’s no reason to keep it around.”   
“Point taken.”   
“And it’s Lestrade-Holmes.”  
“Ergh, that’s so much more of a mouthful,” Sherlock complained, but gave him a flash of a grin.   
“Greg, do you want some tea?” John asked as he began to make some for himself and Sherlock.   
“Um, sure.”   
“Table?”  
Greg shuffled a bit. “Yeah, actually, that might be good.”  
Sherlock tilted his head. “Why is that an important factor? I haven’t had poisons on the table since Rosie was born.”   
Greg smiled as John laughed affectionately and waved Sherlock over. “Come on, you can officially join tea-at-the-table therapy,” he said, placing three mugs onto the tabletop.   
“I’ve only got about half an hour, though,” Greg added. “Mycroft’s with his therapist and I want to be there when he’s done.”  
“I thought his next appointment wasn’t until Thursday?” Sherlock said, frowning.   
“Yeah, well, I urged him to go today and called the therapist myself to get him in first thing.”  
“What’s happened?” John asked, not in the loop.   
Greg sighed and rubbed his face, elbows on the table. “Sherlock took a bag of pills off him yesterday,” he said with a pained look. “He told me about it once Sherlock left, and apologised… but… fuck.”   
“Jesus,” John uttered, “Sherlock didn’t say anything. He said he gave the Musgrave documents and Mycroft looked rested. I just assumed he was alright enough.”   
“So had I. I mean, that morning was the first time in ages that we—” Greg froze and then cleared his throat. “Well, it was a good morning.”   
They drank their teas in an awkward silence until John spoke. “You can’t be too angry with him, mate. He’s come far since the hospital, yeah, but there’s still a lot to go and he can’t be expected not to slip up occasionally.”   
“I’m not angry. I’m just fucking gutted that not only did he actually carry a lethal dose of something around, but that I bloody didn’t notice. Sherlock did. I’m glad he did, mind, but I’m just… I thought he would tell me. I thought I would notice if things got to the point where he felt he needed to do that. Where the hell did he even _get_ them? It fucking terrifies me that he was standing on that proverbial ledge and I just went about my day like normal. Yeah, he was really affected by a nightmare, and yeah he’s been on edge since coming back. I just…” Greg groaned into his hands. “This is just fucking _hard_.”   
John gave him a concerned, but supportive, look. “No one said it wasn’t going to be. It’s good you’ve been doing the mosaic with him and getting the Musgrave stuff done. But, it’s not going to immediately make everything better. He’s committed to staying with you — if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have waited and he definitely wouldn’t have just given his way out to Sherlock. It’s a good thing he told you. Hard to hear, and I understand how frightening it is for you, but try to see it as improvement, Greg,” he said softly.   
“Honestly it’s a faster progression that the first time,” Sherlock commented.   
“Hang in there, mate,” John added, nodding.   
Greg took a deep breath through his nose and leant back in the chair. “Thanks, guys. I needed to hear this; that I wasn’t failing, that things were still actually going alright. I got a bit scared I was only seeing what I wanted, and Myc was actually in a dangerous place. I may have been a little hysteric with his therapist, in hindsight.” 

They talked a little longer, mostly about stuff going on for John, and then Greg had to leave. He took their advice to heart: Sherlock had given observational tips which helped calm Greg’s paranoia, and John had urged him to fish harder for information out of Mycroft. Greg often felt like there was a line between asking because one cares, and an interrogation; he was careful not to approach the line with Mycroft, and give reason to anger or make the man hide away even more. He had to try be brave and push through that uncomfortable feeling, since apparently Mycroft would appreciate it rather than be off put by it. He felt like he’d tried hard at doing this already. 

~

Mycroft walked out of the session looking drained. He was sweaty, and his movements stiff. Greg smiled warmly and embraced him in a hug.   
“How was it, dear?”  
“Strenuous,” Mycroft replied. He sighed and remained holding onto Greg.   
“That’s fine, love. These sessions always leave you raw, and today was a bit more intense. Why don’t we do something completely separate from all this, hm? Would you like to go get some ice-cream?”  
“I am not a child, Gregory,” Mycroft grumbled, standing up straight once more.   
“No, you’re not. So… frozen yoghurt?” Greg kept his expression innocent, despite the eye roll Myc gave him. “Adults go out for ice-cream and frozen yogurt too, you know,” he added.   
“I am aware. In fact, it has become quite a popular past time for many people. Particularly considering the weather is warming up.”   
Greg noticed the small flinching movements Mycroft made as he spoke, and understood. People. That’s why Mycroft didn’t want to do it. He could understand that; Mycroft had difficulty being around people at all in the best of times, and so he certainly wasn’t going to do well when feeling so emotional and vulnerable. “How about we go home, and have a nice long bath?”   
Mycroft paused, and considered it for a moment. “Yes, that sounds enjoyable. Just the two of us.”  
“I’m not going to invite anyone else, if that’s what you mean,” Greg laughed. “Just you, me, some candles, and some soft music.” 

Greg took his time undressing Mycroft. He still had elected to wear a shirt and waistcoat, likely needing some armour to face the outside world today, but had worn a nice jumper over it instead of his jacket. He slid the jumper up over Myc’s head, kissing his neck once it was removed. He then slipped his hands between their bodies to undo the waistcoat buttons. Mycroft nuzzled his hair as he worked. Greg slid the waistcoat off, allowing the palms of his hands to press against Mycroft’s chest as he did so. He hummed happily at the gentle noise that Mycroft made to his touch. Mycroft bent forward and kissed him, which he responded to gladly. He ran his hands through the auburn hair, cupped his cheeks and ran his thumb over the ginger beard.   
“God I love your beard,” he breathed, dragging his lips over the stubble.   
“I know; I had to shave for seeing my parents, but I’ll try to maintain it again for you like before.”   
“Never really noticed,” Greg admitted, his mouth trailing along Mycroft’s neck. “It was just there, and sexy.”   
Mycroft hummed at his touch. Greg started to undo the buttons of his shirt when Mycroft’s hands clasped over his own.   
“Darling,” Mycroft started hesitantly, “I’m not really feeling up to—”  
“’S fine, love. Just what you’re comfortable with.” Greg pecked another kiss before looking into the blue depths. “Do you want me to stop this so far?”   
“No,” Mycroft breathed, “I enjoy the intimacy.”  
“Good.” Greg stroked up and down Mycroft’s chest with his palm. “I want you to feel you’re not alone. I’m here.”   
Mycroft hummed again, reaching around to hold Greg tight in a hug. He responded by embracing him, running his hands over his back. “I love you,” Mycroft uttered into his ear.   
“Love you too, gorgeous. Now, how about we share a bath where I can give you some gentle massages and cuddles?”   
Mycroft nodded, and released his hold of Greg’s body. He pressed a kiss upon Greg’s silver head. “I would enjoy reciprocating.”   
“Mm, I’d like that,” Greg crooned. He continued to undress them both, with less heated vigour than previously, and helped Mycroft step into the bath. 

Mycroft felt the warm water spread over his skin, and could feel his muscles relax. He took a deep breath and exhaled. Gregory joined him, snuggling up beside him in their large tub. He closed his eyes and simply _felt_. The softness of the water encasing him, the comforting tingles from Gregory’s careful strokes, and the coolness of Gregory’s breath on his damp chest. He could remember his husband’s remarks when he bought the bathtub, saying it was ridiculous in install a ‘mini pool’ in the bathroom. Gregory had quickly decided that it was, in fact, a brilliant idea to have a two-person bathtub. He opened his eyes to see the glittering chocolate gaze of his doting husband staring at him, the flickering candlelight reflected in the depths.   
“Feel better?” Greg asked, a hand pressed firmly in the centre of Mycroft’s chest.   
“Much,” Mycroft whispered. His hand ran down Gregory’s body and came to rest on the scar upon his abdomen. He smiled softly, closed his eyes again, and rested his head against Gregory. He didn’t care that it was only lunchtime and they were snuggling in the bath by candlelight; he merely enjoyed the feeling of tension that had gathered in the morning seep out of his body and into the bubbly water. 

~

Mycroft was laying atop his husband’s body on the couch when he received notification that the demolition of Musgrave was going ahead. He grimaced, and Gregory quickly noticed the change in mood.   
“Just an email confirming that the demolition of Musgrave will begin within two days,” Mycroft announced. Gregory held him tighter.   
“That’s good, then.”   
“Yes, I hope so.” Mycroft wasn’t entirely convinced, but he was willing to give it a try. He knew he was supposed to be associating everything that caused him pain in his past with the building to then let go of once it was flattened, but it was difficult. He’d always viewed it as a standing testament to his failures, and it hadn’t really hit him yet that it would actually be gone — not emotionally, at least. He rested his head back down upon Gregory’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. It was the only thing that had calmed him once being coaxed into the living room. He did want to be able to use the room without panic, and so these small steps were important. Gregory had reasoned that he should try while he felt relaxed and close to him. However, he was reaching his limit for today.   
“We can go back to the bedroom now, if you like,” Greg suggested, noticing the change in tension in Mycroft’s body.   
“I think that would be best. It’s been quite enough for one day.” Mycroft sat up and helped Gregory to his feet. The man’s knee had improved dramatically, and he was only using the crutches occasionally, however it still gave him pain. They retreated back to the bedroom slowly. 

Greg had to leave Mycroft on his own for half an hour while he took a phone call from his therapist. He’d forgotten he’d organised a session, and so had negotiated to have a brief check-in over the phone once the psychologist had sent him a text asking why he wasn’t in attendance. When he returned, he found Mycroft sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the desk in the corner. He padded over and sat beside his partner.   
“Myc?”   
Mycroft didn’t respond, but moved his head slightly to indicate that he’d been heard. Greg leaned against him, giving his back a few circular strokes. He looked over to the desk to try and get an idea as to what was going on his Mycroft’s head. That was when he saw it.   
“You should,” he said quietly. “I know you feel you have to get it done before Musgrave is gone.”   
“Will you stay?” Mycroft asked, his voice timid.   
“Always,” Greg answered. He stood and held Mycroft’s hand as they walked over to the desk. Mycroft sat in the chair and looked at the tatted book that lay before him. “I’ll just be on the bed, love,” Greg said, kissing Mycroft’s temple. Before he walked away, he slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out the music box, placing it carefully upon the desk. He didn’t have to explain the meaning.   
Mycroft nodded, took a deep breath, and opened the book to where he’d left off. Greg sat and watched him intently, despite knowing that the process could take hours. He honestly felt like a pizza. He then remembered that it was lunch time, and contemplated making them some lunch and bringing it up, but he didn’t want to leave Mycroft alone to work on his book. He rationalised that he could order pizza for later, while Mycroft was distracted. A little sneaky perhaps, but he needed to keep his, and Mycroft’s, spirits up. Pizza was always an enjoyable experience no matter how much his husband complained about calories. Greg knew it was often said to placate the weight-demon so that he could enjoy the flavour without feeling so guilty, and so had allowed it whilst playfully scolding him for complaining whilst throwing in some compliments. Mycroft wasn’t the only one who could use manipulation to his advantage. Greg smiled at that thought, thinking that at least he used his powers for good. He chuckled at the subsequent thought of being a superhero, whilst Mycroft was the super villain, and imagining Mycroft in tights. He buried his head into his chest sheepishly at the scathing look his husband shot his way for giggling. 


	40. Twice

It was done. He’d started it yesterday, and today he finished. Mycroft stared at the back cover of the book, having only one page left spare. His body felt shaky, but more weakness than actual tremors. Part of his mind was panicking, saying that while this was all done, there was still more to come that should be included. Another part of himself was relieved that he’d finally, _finally_ , gotten everything out — with a glimmer of hope that it meant there were no more terrible things related to family about to happen to subsequently write down. It was strange, so foreign it was almost alien, to think of it all — Eurus, Mummy, Sherlock’s drug habits — as being actually over. In the past. No more. He didn’t feel overwhelmed by the content he’d written down this time, since the finality of it all encompassed him entirely. He pursed his lips harder together as he sat, arms crossed, in the chair looking down at the little rugged book. He didn’t know if he was able to simply walk away from it all merely because he’d written it down now. He knew that was the idea, but he didn’t know how he could just separate himself from it. Gregory didn’t pressure him to do so, and would undoubtedly support him even if he didn’t manage to stand up from his chair and leave everything that happened behind him at the desk. It was he, himself, that pressured himself to do it because he felt that was what he should be doing. 

“Mycroft? You’ve been sitting there like a statue for an hour now, and I’m getting a bit worried.”   
Mycroft was suddenly aware that Gregory was still in the room watching him, as requested. He must have jumped, since Gregory began uttering soothing words to him. He just shook his head, unable to find a way to break through the sea of thoughts in his head. Suddenly he felt a warm hand on his shoulder, easing the tension in his body instantly. He leant in his husband’s direction, still saying nothing.   
“I’m so proud of you,” Greg murmured, pressing his lips to Mycroft’s head.  
“Doesn’t seem quite real,” Mycroft admitted, his face frowning.   
“It won’t for a while love. Try not to stress about breaking free from it all, yeah? It’ll happen when it happens, but you’ve set it all up so that you actually _can_ walk away now.” Greg shuffled closer and enveloped Mycroft in a hug. “Give it time.”   
“Yeah,” Mycroft agreed, nodding. The solid comfort of Gregory’s hold grounded him and quietened the storm in his mind, like it had many times before.   
“You know,” Greg said, nuzzling into Mycroft’s hair, “we could finish the mosaic today. I’d like to get it hung up once it’s dried, too.”   
“I estimate that would be at least forty-eight hours after completion,” Mycroft stated impulsively. His brain just brought the information forward like it used to, before his latest breakdown, and he didn’t quite have the filter for it anymore. He huffed to himself, amused to think that such was how Sherlock had been many years ago. His brother had been able to control himself much better in the past year.   
Mycroft closed his eyes and exhaled, letting his head rest on Gregory’s chest. He didn’t know how he’d have done any of this without his husband’s constant support. His heart twisted painfully as he thought there was no way he could make it up to the man. Gregory’s voice echoed in his mind, something said in the past (he couldn’t tell if it was years ago or only last month, his sense of time was so broken) — ‘ _unconditionally, Myc, without expectation of reciprocation_ ’. Emotion welled inside him, and he honestly felt on the verge of tears just from the love he felt for this wonderful, incredible man who had stood by his side in such honest devotion.   
“What are you thinking, love?” Greg asked, happy to see some peace on Mycroft’s face but not missing the tinge of pain.   
“Just that I love you wholly and completely,” Mycroft answered without opening his eyes.   
“And?”  
“And,” Mycroft said, looking up with hesitation, “that I do not deserve someone so amazing.”   
“Am I going to have to physically slap that thought out of you?” Greg chuckled, pressing a kiss upon Mycroft’s forehead.   
“Perhaps,” Mycroft answered playfully. He didn’t know why he felt well enough to be playful, but he wasn’t about to argue.   
“Oh really? I suppose how effective it’ll be depends on _where_ I slap you, eh? And I think I would enjoy finding the most enjoyable area,” Greg teased. They’d experimented with a bit of rough play in the past, but nothing since that night Mycroft wanted… well, Greg didn’t want to think about it.  
“I’m sorry.” Mycroft could see the small changes in expression on Gregory’s face, and it didn’t take much to make the connection.   
“It’s fine. In the past.”  
“Not so easy to move on from, is it?”   
“No, but I never said it was easy,” Greg chided. “Just that you _could_ now. I’ll be walking that road along with you, Mycroft Holmes, towards that future where we’re better off. Half those tiles are mine, remember? I have a lot to try and walk away from in my past too.”   
Mycroft nodded. It was true; Greg was wanting to start a family with him, but there were a lot of memories involved for Greg that he needed to leave in the past about it. It would be just as hard to break away from so many years of thinking and feeling one way about himself — Mycroft understood that very well. It was daunting. He was glad, in many ways, that he wasn’t ‘moving on’ alone.   
“You’ll be a great dad,” Mycroft said, using those words specifically to try fight against the triggers in Gregory’s mind. “I know you really will be, even if I only have how you’ve taken care of me as evidence.”   
Greg nodded, his heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest. It was partly because of remembering his childhood, and partly from excitement regarding starting a family with Mycroft. “So will you, love.”  
“I believe I have a lot to learn, but it’s something I want to do. In a strange way, I am glad that I have gone through what I have this year as it has put me in a position to be more nurturing to a child in a manner I simply would have been incapable of previously.”   
“You would have been a good father before, but I can’t deny you’d be a better dad now that you’ve let go of those restrictions you placed yourself under.” Greg kissed Mycroft gently, slowly at first, but then it grew more heated. He was panting by the time they broke apart, his nose still pressed against Mycroft’s.   
“Surely you don’t mean to try make a baby now,” Mycroft joked.   
“I know I didn’t do well in science, but I am pretty sure we’d need a third party involved for that to happen.”   
“So, no need to worry about suddenly becoming parents, then?” Mycroft stood, running his hands up and down Gregory’s sides. He nuzzled the soft skin under Greg’s neck, pecking kisses as he trailed his lips from his Adam’s apple to his earlobe. He heard a shuddering breath, feeling it warm on his ear, as he continued to hold them together.   
“You serious?” Greg breathed, barely able to think from the tingling sensations running through his body. “It’s fine, Myc, if not—”  
Mycroft cut Gregory off with a kiss, hungry and probing. He cupped Greg’s cheeks with both hands, before running them down Greg’s spine to rest upon the small of his back. He then started to manoeuvre him backwards towards the bed. “I want you,” he murmured into Gregory’s lips. “I want to feel you. I want to make you cry out in pleasure.”   
Greg’s entire body shivered at those words. He was aware of the throbbing in his trousers, and felt the hot need building in his gut. Still, his mind was mildly worried about the sudden change in his husband’s mood. “Fuck, I want that. You know how to make me interested… god. But I need to be sure you’re in a good place for this.”   
Mycroft answered Greg’s question by gently grabbing his wrist and pressing the man’s hand against his erection.   
“Jesus,” Greg breathed, involuntarily groping around the hardness. “But that’s not what I meant. Not if you’re physically interested, Myc, but if you’re emotionally ready.”   
“You’re putting up a bit of a fight,” Mycroft mused, pushing him down on the bed and straddling him.   
“Myc,” Greg said seriously, and the tone was enough for Mycroft to stop. He sat upright, and looked down on him with an intense gaze.   
“I want to make love with you, Greg. I honestly do. I feel… lighter, and when I feel you pressed against me I feel calmer than I have in a while. You have always calmed the storm inside of me, but right now, I just feel _want_. It’s not about looking for a distraction to cover up all the horrible feelings that come from the stuff in that book. I don’t feel wrecked like the other times I’ve written. I just know you’ve always been there by my side and I want to feel your skin against mine.”  
Greg reached up and grabbed Mycroft’s shirt forcefully, and pulled him down to meet his lips. “Perfect,” he mumbled between kisses. 

They took their time undressing; Mycroft enjoying teasing each new piece of skin revealed on Greg’s body. Greg nuzzled, kissed, licked, and even bit, Mycroft’s skin as he shed the clothing covering his body. Myc was enjoying every second of it; the alternating tender and rough ministrations, the soft grinding of his pelvis against Greg’s, and the subtle moans that escaped his partner’s lips. Greg felt his whole body buzzing. He writhed under Mycroft, unable to keep still, andused his hands to grasp Mycroft’s arse and elicit more friction between them.   
“Patience, darling. I intend to be engaged in this for some time.”  
“Fuck, I don’t know if I can wait,” Greg admitted breathlessly.   
“I’m going to make you, either way,” Mycroft hummed, running his hands up Greg’s belly and over his chest. Gregory sat up for him to allow the t-shirt he wore to be tossed aside. “I want to lay here and feel you everywhere.”   
“I — oooh,” Greg moaned, Mycroft having laid down completely upon him, bare chest to bare belly, and clasped his mouth around a nipple.  
“Mmm, you must be excited… you’re not usually this sensitive here,” Mycroft mused devilishly. He bit down with his teeth, and Greg yelped. Mycroft licked the bud gently a few times, and then blew on it. Greg exclaimed again at the cold, and drew a deep breath when Mycroft began to suck.   
“Jesus, you feel it this much all the time?”  
“Generally,” Mycroft answered as he changed nipples.   
“I never — argh, yeah — I never really got why you liked it,” Greg admitted, breathing heavily as he looked at Mycroft’s auburn head. “Get it now, though.”   
Mycroft broke into a sly grin, not that Gregory could see it, and slid his hand down to cup Greg’s erection. The moment he rubbed his palm over the bulge, he sucked hard on the nipple. The body below him jerked as Greg cried out. He deftly flicked the button of the jeans open, and slowly moved his hand inside. He could feel a wet spot at the tip of the erection beneath the fabric.   
“If we were twenty years younger, I’d get you off now to then enjoy the next hour or two of slow lovemaking,” Mycroft hummed, looking into Greg’s deep chocolate gaze.   
“Fuck, make me sound old, eh? But really, let’s be honest, it’s more like thirty.”   
“Experience. And you are _fucking_ _hot_ , Gregory Lestrade-Holmes,” Mycroft enunciated. His husband swore and kissed him roughly, bucking his hips up into Mycroft’s palm. He knew that swearing really excited Gregory, probably because it was only ever for him, like this.   
“This motor may be fifty soon, but you certainly get it going,” Greg uttered into Mycroft’s ear. “I think you could get me ready for a second round soon enough.”   
“Is that a challenge?”  
“If you want it to be,” Greg answered, and kissed him again.   
“But what of your plans to finish the mosaic?”  
“Fuck it,” Greg answered forcefully, undoing Mycroft’s trousers as he spoke.   
“I’d rather fuck you,” Mycroft answered as innocently-sounding as he could make it.   
“You’re going to.”

Mycroft rid Gregory of the remainder of his clothes, shed his own in the process, and pressed their bodies together in bliss. He didn’t move at first, merely lay there on top of Greg, feeling the warmth on his skin and the comfort spread throughout his chest. He lifted his head and kissed Gregory; long, passionate, deep, gentle… their mouths remained connected as their bodies slid against each other until breathing became impossible between kisses. Mycroft panted in Greg’s ear, surprised at how close he’d gotten himself from the small movements.  
“You’re going for round two as well, you know,” Greg murmured, licking up Mycroft’s ear.   
“Surprisingly, I believe I can oblige,” Mycroft answered as he recoiled from the wet tongue in his ear. He hummed and shivered, enjoying the sensation, but it still tickled and his body sunk into itself at the feeling.   
“I’ll have you babbling nonsense soon enough. You’re not enjoying it if you can form sentences.”   
Mycroft chuckled and lay his head on Greg’s chest. The steady thrum of the heartbeat calmed something deep inside him, even if the pulse was significantly elevated. “How do you want it now?”   
“I know you like plans but I want to take this as it happens,” Greg answered, running his hand up and down Mycroft’s spine. “Just close off your mind for a bit and feel. Anything. Just… I’m being honest here and saying I’m so excited right now that you’d only have to lick my cock for me to be coming streams.”   
Mycroft looked up at him slyly again, and bucked his hips so his cock slid against Gregory’s.   
“Fuck, Jesus Myc I’m serious…” Greg shouted, reflexively grabbing Mycroft’s buttocks and squeezing. He was shaking from the need in his body and the attempt at resisting his urges. He whimpered when Mycroft lifted himself off his body, exposing him to the cool air. His partner snaked over to the bedside table and fetched the lube with the grace of a cat, returning to hover over him on his knees. Suddenly he felt the cold press of lubed fingers against his entrance, and before he could wonder how Mycroft had opened the bottle without him noticing, two fingers were pressing inside him. It burned slightly going straight to two, and it reduced the frantic desire to come — which, he assumed, was Mycroft’s plan. He groaned loudly as the fingers moved deeper inside him. “Ahhh… yes, Myc, stretch me up… I want you inside me.”  
“Oh, I will soon, dear. Once you’re begging for more than my three fingers, I’ll fill you up.”   
Greg moaned even louder at the sound of his husband’s dirty talk. The man’s voice was like silk on fire, and it shot through his body like electricity.   
“Yes, I know you like hearing me — like I do you. Well, you’re in for a treat, today, since I feel particularly vocal. I want to hear your noises, Greg. I want to hear what it does to you when I shove inside you,” Mycroft rasped, moving his body forward and pressing a third finger into his partner.   
“Fuuuck, Myc… you’ll make me come without touching me at all at this rate,” Greg blurted. He was already panting and starting to sweat. “Oh, yeah… oh, that’s good, yeah.”  
Mycroft smiled to himself as he saw Greg relax below him as his muscle loosened to the three fingers. He applied some more lubricant and pushed them in again, pumping them slowly. “That’s it, darling, stretch for me.”   
Greg’s body curled up at the words, resulting in him grabbing onto the arm that Mycroft used to steady himself on the bed. “Please,” he begged, “please take me. I’m already so close, Myc, I want to feel you…”  
“Perhaps I should give you a minute to calm down?” Mycroft teased, and enjoyed the desperate frown Gregory shot him.   
“Don’t you fucking dare.”   
“Close your eyes,” Mycroft instructed, and Gregory obliged. He slicked his prick up with lube and aligned himself with Gregory’s entrance, pressing his head up against the muscle. He wiped his hand on the linen, knowing he’d need to change the sheets after this anyway, and braced himself above his partner. “Just feel,” he instructed, slowly moving his hips forward.   
“Ahhhh, ooh, that’s good, yes, fill me,” Greg mumbled as he felt the stretch and fullness. Once Mycroft was pressed to the hilt, he opened his eyes to see Mycroft’s blue gaze staring down from above. He lifted himself up to kiss him, and Mycroft lowered himself onto his elbows to allow long, drawn-out kisses. He had to break the kiss, however, as Mycroft started languidly sliding in and out of him. He was panting too much to do anything else but moan at each time Mycroft’s cock filled him deeply again.   
“Oh, Greg, you feel amazing,” Mycroft hummed. Greg shouted in response, clutching on to Mycroft tighter. He tilted his eyebrow, considering that he possibly _could_ make Gregory come without touching his cock. His partner did enjoy penetration often, and had almost gotten there numerous times. He didn’t know why exactly his husband was so… _horny_ … right now, but he was going to see how far he could go. “Fuck, feeling you squeeze around my cock, Greg, it’s sublime.”   
“Jesus fucking Christ, Myc,” Greg yelled, rocking his hips desperately.   
“I’m going to come deep inside you,” Mycroft murmured, bending down to lick at a nipple. “Fill you up.” He wasn’t exactly sure what he should say for ‘dirty talk’, but he’d heard Gregory often enough and wasn’t afraid to just say whatever came to mind that got him going. It seemed to be working, at any rate. Gregory was shaking beneath him. He was close too, and so it wan’t an empty threat of a statement, either.   
“Myc, please… oh, god, please, harder…”   
“You want it rough, eh? Want me to slam my cock hard into you?” The words felt awkward for Mycroft to say, and he felt like he should feel ashamed for having uttered them, but it was driving his husband wild and he _loved_ seeing that happen. He started thrusting hard, angling himself to hit at Gregory’s prostate. His abdominals ached and demanded he stop, but the urge to grab a hold tightly of Greg’s body and pound it until he released surfaced and blocked out the protests of his muscles.   
“Oh, yeah, ah, Greg, you’re so good,” Mycroft panted, letting himself go.   
“Fuck, fuck, Myc, yes, oh god… oh… oh… _fuck_ ,” Greg screamed as he came, spurting white liquid over himself. He pulsed and pulsed, small amounts of semen spilling out as he did. Mycroft was still buried deep inside him as his muscles clamped around the penis penetrating him.   
“Greg, I’m going to…” Mycroft breathed, still unmoving as he was buried as deep as possible in his husband’s body. He’d stopped thrusting as he felt the muscles surrounding him clamp down, but was now feeling desperate to thrust that little bit more to bring him over. He was shaking with need.   
“Fill me, Myc; thrust into me and come inside me,” Greg pleaded, his voice hoarse from shouting. His body had stopped pulsing, and he just felt blissful exhaustion grip him.   
“Fuck, you’ve gotten loose,” Mycroft uttered as he thrust again, Gregory’s body offering no protest to the intrusion. The sensation felt amazing; just heat, Gregory’s heat, encasing him without the harder clamping of muscle around the base of his cock. His arms, even on his elbows, refused to hold him up any longer, and so he let himself rest his entire weight upon Greg’s person as he drove deep into his body. “Ah, yeah, oh… yeah,” he exclaimed, much quieter than his partner, as he came. He held onto Greg by slipping his arms under the man’s shoulders, keeping him pressed close as each aftershock wracked his body. He pulled out, and Gregory lay his legs down, resulting in them cuddling together in a breathless exhaustion. 

“I don’t know where the fuck that all came from,” Greg spoke, “but I’ll have to figure out how to get you to do it again.”   
“Enjoyed it that much?”  
Greg just looked at Mycroft with a blank expression, which in turn made Mycroft laugh. It was an honest, true laugh free from any of the shadows that had haunted him since before Sherrinford. Greg beamed and kissed him. “Still can’t believe I came without you touching me, and that hard too. Do you want to clean up before more, or just keep going?”  
“Which would you prefer?”  
“I don’t want to move a muscle, honestly. I want to just hold you, mess be damned. We’ll clean later. In fact, I think I’ll clean you myself so I can touch you everywhere… with my tongue.”   
“You dirty man, you.”   
“You love it,” Greg taunted, kissing him again. “Maybe just lay here together for a bit?”  
“As long as it involves kissing you, I’m contented,” Mycroft answered. “Maybe running my hand over your skin, through your hair, nuzzling your neck…”   
“Mmm yes, all of that. Soft, lazy, lovingly… we have all day, after all.”   
“I still have plans for you, Mr Lestrade-Holmes, and not all of it is so gentle,” Mycroft disclosed with a grin.   
“Perfect,” Greg responded, running the barest of touches down Mycroft’s back to the crack of his bum. His partner shivered from the tingles. “I have some dastardly plans as well, you know.”   
“See, it doesn’t matter that your fiftieth is coming up. You still give me what I need and are the sexiest man I have seen.”   
“Flatterer,” Greg retorted affectionately. “Back at you, though.”  
“My fiftieth is _not_ coming up,” Mycroft protested with a snort.   
“I’ll be sooner than you think, trust me.”   
“In that case,” Mycroft said, shifting off Greg and trailing his nose downwards towards Greg’s flaccid cock, “I shall have to make the best of things while I’m still young.”  
Greg flinched at the sudden feeling of Mycroft’s mouth on the head of his penis, but exhaled a rumble. He wasn’t about to argue his husband’s point, not when it led to this. 


	41. The End Result

Sherlock walked into the living room with a frown on his face and his mobile in his hand. John looked up from his laptop when he saw Sherlock moving, and felt a twinge of concern for whatever was making his partner look like that.   
“What’s up?”  
“Have you spoken to Greg today?”   
John’s stomach flipped uncomfortably. “Yes,” he said slowly, “why?”  
“That was Anthea,” Sherlock mumbled, still frowning at the phone in his hand. He remained standing near the door. “What did Greg say? Anything… potentially dangerous perhaps?”  
John closed the laptop and frowned himself. “He said Mycroft was going to continue writing in his book, about the last Sherrinford visit. What’s going on?”  
“Hmm. I think we should go over there and check on them.”   
“Sherlock, bloody answer me already!” John snapped, more out of concern than anger.   
“Anthea needed to contact Mycroft regarding the booking at the Old Red Lion for Greg’s birthday ‘do’. Unfortunately it is rather urgent, given the event is in four days. Therefore she attempted to call Mycroft. However, he didn’t answer. Nor did he answer when I attempted to call.”  
“That’s not necessarily cause for alarm,” John pondered a little suspiciously. Mycroft generally always answered his phone, but it was possible things changed since the breakdown.   
“Agreed. She left a message, and sent a text. He hasn’t looked at the text message. She tried calling Greg’s phone, but it also rang out. He also hasn’t looked at the text message she sent to her. He, also, wouldn’t answer me.”   
“Alright, sounding a bit more worrying now. Greg also always responds… even if it’s to say he’s busy. Don’t they have cameras in their house? Can’t she work out what’s happened from that?” John asked while he stood, ready to follow Sherlock out.   
“There aren’t any in their bedroom, which is where Mycroft and Greg are. They haven’t left in hours. My brother would have used the desk in there for writing, but it also opens the situation up to many possibilities.”   
“Such as?”  
“The ensuite contains sharp objects and hard surfaces. There are medications within reach. It’s possible Mycroft was prescribed more sleeping pills which Greg decided to hide in the closet again,” Sherlock listed off while walking down the stairs. He didn’t like having to consider these possibilities.   
“They all sound a bit drastic,” John commented, standing beside Sherlock in the street as they hailed a taxi.   
“I took suicide pills off my brother three days ago, John. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to entertain the possibility of the situation going in that direction.”   
“Point taken.”

They rode in uncomfortable silence to Mycroft and Greg’s house. John could tell Sherlock was worried, and so took his hand gently. “It’ll be alright, yeah? No matter what’s happened, it’ll be ok.”   
“You can’t be sure of that. I greatly dislike being on this side of the situation,” Sherlock grumbled, looking out the window pensively.   
“I’ll head in first. If there’s a medical emergency, I’ll be able to help.”   
Sherlock nodded and smiled at John, and gripped the small hand tighter. “Thank you. It’s just… it’s been well over an hour since Anthea couldn’t contact either of them.”  
“Why did she wait so long to call you?”   
“In case they were simply… watching a film or taking a nap, I suppose. Who knows what they do in their spare time.”  
John chuckled. “Yeah, I imagine Mycroft would be less than impressed to have his film noir sessions interrupted.”

They arrived at the house and let themselves in, John striding ahead. Sherlock followed slightly cautiously, but with determined steps. John couldn’t help but be concerned; if _both_ of them weren’t responding, it must be big. He walked into the entranceway, and stopped once he heard noises. He strained his ears, but couldn’t quite make it out. He then continued on to the bottom of the staircase where he stopped dead. The noises were grunts and moans, with the occasional profanity. He instantly turned on his heels and marched away, towards Sherlock.   
“What is it?” Sherlock demanded.   
“It’s fine, everything’s fine,” John mumbled quickly, trying to push Sherlock in the other direction before he heard something scarring. As Sherlock wouldn’t move without an explanation, he was there to hear the loud ‘ _oh fuck, Myc_ ’ resound through the house. John flushed red and tried to shove Sherlock out of the house.   
“What are you doing? Listen, they need help!”   
“No, Sherlock, they’re having sex,” John stated bluntly. The silence between them was pierced with ‘ _Greg, oh, yes, there, harder_ ’, which instantly set John on a determined trip out of the house. Sherlock followed on his heels.   
“But they’ve been out of contact for almost _two hours_ , John.”   
“Yes, and?” John turned to Sherlock to watch him close the door softly, to see a look of utter confusion on his face.   
“Two hours, John.”   
“Look, I know you don’t really understand this, but the end result isn’t always the most important part.” John quirked his eyebrows, hoping that the detective might pick up on the hint. Sherlock remain still for a moment, thinking, before shaking his head and walking off to catch another taxi. John followed with an amused grin.   
“I shall inform Anthea that they will respond as soon as they finish having sex, then.”   
“Sherlock, have a little tact.”  
“Why? It’s accurate.”  
“Normally people who are considerate merely hint at sex rather than blatantly stating it.”  
“How is being ambiguous ‘considerate’?”  
“Oh for the… just text her saying that they are ‘otherwise engaged’ and will get back to her soon.”  
Sherlock did as he was told, and noticed that there was something bothering John. A taxi pulled up for them, and so he decided to ask what the issue was whilst returning home. The moment he attempted to start, however, he was silenced and told to ask when they were back at Baker Street — apparently, talking about sex was also not to be done in front of strangers one would never see again. He shook his head, annoyed at all the unspoken and confusing rules. 

~

“Oh dear.” Mycroft looked up from his phone. He’d left it on the desk from when he was writing; he’d put it on silent so that he wouldn’t be interrupted while losing himself in the sea of emotions. However, he’d forgotten to turn it off silent again once he’d finished.   
“What is it?”  
“Anthea has been attempting to contact me. For some time, actually. She appears to have gotten concerned at my lack of response.”   
Greg stretched out on the bed before sitting up and nuzzling his partner’s bare back. “It’s fine, I’m sure she’ll understand.”   
“Yes, well, at least there are no cameras in here for her to access in order to confirm my whereabouts and condition.”  
“Good call,” Greg stated, a little uncomfortable. He was left to wonder if the times they’d had sex in the living room or the kitchen wasn’t as private as he’d thought. He decided to say nothing. He let himself lean against Mycroft’s freckled back as the man called Anthea. The conversation was short, and Greg had a feeling it was about the — supposedly secret— reservation for his birthday.   
“I have some difficult news,” Mycroft said, his voice strained.   
Greg pulled him down onto the bed, holding him gently. “What is it? I’m here, whatever it is, ok?” He was always wary of anything Mycroft termed ‘difficult news’ these days.   
“It seems that in Anthea’s panic over our being out of contact, she called Sherlock to find out if he knew anything. She didn’t say anything in particular, but I heard in her tone that she knew why we didn’t respond, and I have a message from Sherlock also asking if I am alright. It appears that Sherlock and John came by to check up on us.”   
“But I didn’t hear… oh.” Greg finally clicked on to what Mycroft was saying. He shrugged. “I don’t care.”   
“Really?”  
“Yeah, I’ve not kept the fact I have sex with you a secret from him, you know. I’m sure he was a lot more embarrassed about it than either of us. So really, it’s his problem. You having a good time and him overhearing by accident isn’t something you need to feel bad about.” Greg lazed back and kissed Mycroft’s head. He hoped his casual attitude helped with the awkward feelings that were plaguing his husband right now over that posh-correctness stuff of his childhood.   
“Well, that aside, everything is now set for the party on Saturday.”  
“Oh? Brilliant. I literally know nothing about it.”   
“Yes, well, Anthea has organised it for us.”  
“I thought she was busy running the country at the moment.”  
“I don’t know how much of the planning she did personally, but the event is planned and ready to go ahead. You and I are going to leave on Friday to spend the evening there, the party is on Saturday for lunch, we will stay Saturday night as well, have a day of relaxation on Sunday, and then return Sunday evening.”   
Greg nodded as he listened to the information. “It’s not in some five star castle, is it?”   
“I— honestly, I had looked into something similar, but I felt you would be more comfortable elsewhere.”  
“You know me so well,” Greg hummed, leaning up to kiss Mycroft. “Thank you, for all of this.”   
“Always,” Mycroft responded, kissing Gregory again. “We have booked the venue out for the entirety of Saturday, so there will only be our company. Our room is upstairs from the dining area, so it will be easy to slip away for a breath of air.”  
“Good precautions.” 

They discussed the birthday lunch a little more, but Greg decided that all the talk of lunch was making him hungry. He ushered Mycroft downstairs, where he set about making a frittata with spinach, mushroom, tomato, and leek. He was enjoying the freedom of being able to walk and stand without much pain or the crutches. He hadn’t even really thought about it for the entirety of their time in the bedroom.   
“I think it’d be perfect here,” Greg announced, indicating to the area over the wall table.   
“I believe I could arrange that. I will need to have the wall structurally reinforced to accomodate the extra weight.”  
“It can’t be that heavy, surely.”  
“More than you’d think, darling. Besides, that wall is not structural, therefore there is not made of significant load-bearing materials to affix the mosaic. It can barely manage the painting,” Mycroft spoke, stirring his coffee.   
Greg chuckled, looking at the abstract blue, navy, and silver canvas. “So, shall we finish it?”  
“Yes. Today is a day of completion, it seems.” Mycroft padded over and stood beside his husband, leaning his head upon Gregory’s silver hair. “Tomorrow is a new day.”   
“Yeah, it is,” Greg hummed, closing his eyes and focusing on the warm touch of Mycroft’s body. “If, in a year’s time, we’re in a good place… do you want to try for a baby?”   
“One year?”  
“Yeah. I think that’s a good time frame. We have to be sure we’re alright to take on something so big, and it’s far enough to take our time getting to that place.”   
Mycroft put his coffee on the wall table, and then slid his arms around his husband. He kissed Greg’s temple. “Yes, I would like that very much. I do have to mention it might be difficult for two ageing men to adopt, however, darling. I don’t want you to get disappointed with the process.”  
“Oh, I had a different idea…” Greg trailed off suggestively. He felt Mycroft’s inquisitive expression on the back of his neck, and so slid around in the embrace to face him. “I want for us to be the parents.”   
“Gregory…”  
“Yeah, I know, biology. But, hear me out. What I’d like is for us to make love, finish together and give that as our ‘sample’, and use a surrogate. It’s as close as we can get to make a baby that’s ours.”   
“An intriguing idea, my dear. No one will know exactly who is the father, therefore effectively we both will be.”  
“Schrödinger’s baby. Unless they inherit your flaming red hair, love,” Greg chuckled, taking Mycroft’s lips into a warm kiss.   
“It was never flaming,” Mycroft protested mildly. “Also, if you put our child in a box with a radioactive vial of poison, I will be most upset.” He giggled and brushed his nose against Gregory’s at his husband’s silliness; once the man had stopped laughing, that is. “I love you, darling, and I can’t wait until we can take that step.”  
“I love you too. It’ll be difficult, having a baby — particularly at our age — but I want to do this with you.”   
“As do I. Don’t worry about our age so much. It’s not common, but not unheard of, to be new parents at this stage in life. And we won’t be alone to juggle work and the baby, if need be.” Mycroft gazed upon Greg’s face through half-lidded eyes, smiling contentedly.


	42. A New Position

“We could have hung it once we returned from the party, darling,” Mycroft said, standing with his hands on his hips at the dining table. He was looking as two men carried their completed artwork into the house to be hung upon the newly-reinforced wall.   
“Call me crazy, but I want to come back from this birthday dinner for a fresh start.”  
“It’s not crazy, love.”  
Greg beamed at his husband, resisting giving him a hug because of the concrete dust on his hands. “It’ll be good. Get away, relax a bit just us, and then come home to this on the wall and all those things in the past staying in the past.”   
“As long as you’re not placing expectations upon us,” Mycroft stressed, frowning.   
“Of course not.” Greg brushed his hand against his trousers vigorously, and then held it out for Mycroft to take. He smiled when Mycroft took it. “It’s just an idea. Setting it up, so to speak. No pressure or nothing — just helping the process along.”  
Mycroft nodded, and said nothing more as he watched the mosaic be hung. The men, having completed their task, gave them both a curt nod before vacating the premises. Mycroft continued to look upon the artwork, recalling the words hidden on the underside of the tiles. “It has turned out quite lovely,” he said quietly.   
“You sound surprised.”  
“I had not expected it to have looked so proficient, given it was our first attempt,” Mycroft admitted, stepping forward to brush his fingertips over the tiles. Gregory scuttled into the kitchen to rinse his hands, before returning and cuddling Mycroft around the middle from behind.   
“It’s perfect,” Greg hummed, resting his chin on Mycroft’s shoulder. “Even the size works alright in this room. I was a bit worried it would be too big and dominate over everything. Although, you know I don’t mind my Sunshine dominating over me sometimes,” Greg rasped into Mycroft’s ear.   
“You are insatiable at times, my dear.”  
“Nah, I just love teasing you. You always flush the most sexy shade of pink.”  
Mycroft ducked his head, blushing harder, but chuckled in a pleased manner. He really did enjoy Gregory’s teasing. It made him feel constantly wanted. His jubilance faded, however, when he remembered he still hadn’t told his husband about the impending outline being sent from Anthea at some point during the day. He’d avoided saying anything when he’d been informed about the documents, not wanting to cause a fuss, but he’d delayed as much as he could now.   
“What is it?” Greg asked, noticing the change in demeanour.   
“I have something I need to discuss with you, and I have put it off too long,” Mycroft declared. He could feel Gregory’s grip tighten.   
“Have you reconsidered children?”  
“Heavens no,” Mycroft exclaimed, swivelling to face Gregory’s pained face. “No, my dear, I am wholly committed to raising a family with you.” Mycroft kissed him gently. “I’m afraid this is regarding my work,” he confessed, sighing.   
“Oh,” Greg breathed, the adrenaline leaving his system. “What about it?”   
“Would you like to take a seat?” Mycroft gestured to the table behind them.   
“Tea at the table? Must be serious,” Greg chortled, taking a seat. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, but Greg just shook his head. “Just… something with John.”  
“Ah. Well, I suppose the concept is applicable to the situation. Would you like tea?”  
“Um, sure, thanks. You’re really unsettled by this work thing, aren’t you?” Greg asked, taking note of Mycroft’s stiff movements and clenched jaw.   
“It is… unsettling, yes. I am unaccustomed to having my work situation dictated for me without my inclusion let alone input.”   
Greg sighed and grimaced. Mycroft was using large words again, which meant he was trying to return to his detached work-persona. “Myc,” he started, but wasn’t sure exactly what to say. His partner looked up at him from the bench. He cleared his throat and tried again. “It’ll be ok, you know. It might be different, but that’s a good thing, alright? You can’t go back to how things were.”   
“I know,” Mycroft admitted softly. As much as he was aware of the fact, his emotions were having a difficult time accepting the changes he’d undergone. The voice in his head kept telling him that he was a failure, and now too weak to be who he used to be. He stood silently as the water boiled. It wasn’t until he’d carried the tea over to the table and poured Gregory a cup did he speak again. “Adjusting to change has always been a weakness of mine. Particularly changes I have no control over.”   
Greg took Mycroft’s hand in his own. “You can’t expect to be the same person as before all of this. That man is gone, and I’m glad — you’ve come out the better for it, Myc. Everything going on before Eurus trapped you all was breaking you apart. And we’re going to start a family in a year… spending less time, with a less demanding job, is going to be good. I know work was your life before Sherrinford—”  
“Before you, Gregory,” Mycroft interrupted sternly. “Not after. You were always what I valued most.”   
Greg shut his mouth, staring in shock. He hadn’t expected that. He’d known that Mycroft was entirely devoted to his job, and that deep down their relationship mattered more in the end, but he hadn’t expected his husband to be so sure and blatant about it. It made him want to tear up; his throat had gotten tight, preventing more sounds being spoken. Mycroft continued into the silence.   
“I know my work was important to me but please don’t ever think for one second that you were not my life, Gregory Lestrade-Holmes. When I say I would have let the world fall into chaos to save your life, you know what that means. You may not approve of that choice, given the ramifications to so many people, but it is one I would have made. The difference is that I no longer see that sentiment as weakening me and my position. Having that power taken from me is both a humiliation, given the reason, and a relief — as I no longer need feel guilt or fear of making that choice.”    


Greg drank his tea, a little perturbed. He considered himself no more important that anyone else; it was something that always caused success in his job and difficulty in his interactions with Mycroft’s associates, as he didn’t consider anyone to be inherently better or more important than anyone else.It helped him calm victims and get confessions, but Mycroft’s classy friends didn’t like the bit-of-rough copper thinking himself equal to them. To hear that his life would have been chosen over hundreds of others was affecting him deeply, but part of that was realising that it was something he’d known all along.   
“I have made you upset,” Mycroft stated, and Greg just heard Sherlock’s voice in his head saying the exact same thing. The brothers were so very similar sometimes, Greg thought.   
“No. Well, yeah, but that’s not what we’re talking about. You know I don’t want you to choose me over a hundred others, and you’ve known that all along. I guess I’m more confronted than anything, realising that it was something we both knew but never really said. The point is, you’re not going to be in the position to make those calls anymore, right?”   
“I don’t know,” Mycroft said quietly, shaking his head. “Anthea is sending me the details of my new position today.”  
“Today? You’re not alright to go back to work, Myc,” Greg protested.   
“No, not today, darling. It is merely the details of what my work will entail once I am deemed fit to return. I will need time to consider the documents and the subsequent implications for my life. I will then be assessed for the requirements of the new job outline.” Mycroft stared into his mug, his mood sombre.   
“Sunshine,” Greg said softly, “I didn’t mean anything by saying you aren’t ready to work. It’s not saying anything derogatory about you that you’re still recovering and need to keep away from those stresses, alright?” He kept his tone gentle and spoke slowly. Mycroft nodded, flickering his eyes up to his for a moment, before returning to look into his tea. Greg pursed his lips in concern. “I know you don’t like it being this slow.”   
“I don’t like being someone different. I’m not certain about myself anymore. And… who I was before was the man you fell in love with. What if this new me isn’t—”  
“Mycroft,” Greg interrupted, “everything that truly matters to me is still intact. All your pieces are still there, just arranged better now.” Greg gestured up to the mosaic hanging on the wall. “This is what happens in a marriage. We change, we adapt, but we still love. Together through everything. There is no ‘better before’, because it’s the journey taken together that binds us as one. We might not come out of things the same but we come out together and stronger for it.”   
“I don’t know how you find it to be so meaningfully eloquent in these situations,” Mycroft muttered.   
“You bring out the best in me,” Greg hummed, leaning forward to kiss Mycroft briefly. “Don’t get hung up worrying about who you are now compared to who you were before. We’re leaving the bad things of our past behind us, remember? Just be you, now, today, with me. You aren’t expected to be that same man you were before in this new job. Just be you now. I have a feeling it’ll be a load off your mind.” Greg stood, pressed a kiss on Mycroft’s forehead, and walked to put his mug in the sink. 

Mycroft remained at the table, mulling over his husband’s words. They made a lot of sense. He wasn’t sure how he was going to manage it all yet, but Gregory was right — it was a weight off his mind to not have to worry about who he _should_ be when returning to work. His position was being changed because of what happened and who he became as a result. He didn’t need to try be something else; and in the long run, not having that pressure to live up to would be remarkable. It was now looking realistic for him to manage a happy balance between work and a family in his life — something previously unknown to him. He’d had a balance, sure, with Gregory in their marriage… but it wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t the happiest it could have been. Both of them constantly working, rarely finding time with each other to relax, always with work on their minds… it would be incredulous, and incredible, to have that change for the better from now on.   
“Are you feeling alright, love?”  
“Fine,” Mycroft mumbled, snapping out of his thought processes. “Yes. I think it’ll be ok, you know. Changing my duties at work.”  
“Wonderful,” Greg cheered gently, cuddling him as he stood by his side.   
“What about you?”  
“Me?”  
“Yes. Your work. You can hardly return to being a full time Detective Chief Inspector.”  
“Is that so?” Greg questioned, his tone akin to when he was dealing with a petulant criminal in interrogation. He winced inwardly when he heard it. “What makes you think that?”  
“Gregory,” Mycroft huffed, eyeing his partner.   
“Yes, yes, the stress,” Greg admitted, collapsing into the chair once more. He rubbed his face with his hands. “I don’t want to stop though.”  
“I’m not suggesting such; merely, perhaps like me, you alter the stipulations.”   
“I have far less say over what my job entails than you do, Myc. The workload is set. The responsibilities are pre-determined by the system.”   
“Why can you not continue with your current arrangement?”   
Greg cocked his head. “Part time?”   
Mycroft nodded.  
Greg took a deep breath, thinking. He knew that Mycroft was no longer in the position to secure such an unorthodox agreement for him, and despite disliking Mycroft interfering with his job, he’d regrettably come to rely upon it as a back-up. However, it hadn’t seemed like his current part-time compromise actually had much to do with Mycroft’s influence. Honestly, the more he thought about it, he wasn’t sure why he couldn’t continue to be part time — the hard part was getting it approved and running, and so requesting the change be permanent was a legitimate option.   
“I’m sure it would be approved,” Mycroft commented.   
“Yeah, I’ll put in the request. What we have now is working well. I honestly don’t want to go back to the days when it was a rare occasion to lay on the couch after sharing dinner, not plagued by, for me, cases, and for you… I dunno, wars, politicians, laws, whatever else you were up to.”   
“The worst humanity has to offer, for both of us,” Mycroft agreed, his shoulders slumping. He looked up at Gregory, his eyes slightly pleading. “We deserve to take a step away from all of that, don’t we?”  
“Yes, Sunshine. We do.” Greg’s voice was finite, leaving no room for questioning. Greg had been run into the ground with horrific murders and crimes, and Mycroft had not only been tortured —multiple times — but had to literally carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. They did deservesome peace. 

Greg decided to contact his office today, so that they both would be headed towards their new lives at the same time. It was only an hour later that Anthea arrived, electing to deliver the documents to Mycroft in person. While Mycroft studied the pages in the file, Anthea spoke to him. She assured him that he would be able to continue his position part time; even if the commissioner declined the request initially, her office would make it happen. He tried to argue politely against favours, but was silenced immediately. Anthea could be scary when she was determined, Greg remembered. 

They went to bed that night, packed ready for departure the following morning, feeling optimistic. Greg was pleased that his job was secure and manageable. Mycroft had found, at least upon a cursory reading, his new position acceptable. They didn’t talk much about it; merely lay in the peace, snuggled up together. Greg had his hand pressed against his husband’s chest, softly stroking his thumb over the skin. He was glad that Mycroft’s job was now much more like the standard nine-to-five job, with only the occasional trip lasting a few days for extreme circumstances. It would take some adjustment to switch off at the end of the day, Greg knew it would, but it would do wonders for his husband’s health. Hell, just not having life-and-death decisions placed in front of him every moment was going to make worlds of difference.   
With the prospect of a baby on the horizon, Mycroft knew that he would be comfortable with the reduced responsibilities, and status, of his new position. He’d have something else in his life taking his attention and making him feel important. He drifted off to a calm sleep with Gregory’s warmth pressing up along his back. 


	43. Consolations of Demolition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't normally post music to go with writing, but [this](https://youtu.be/t8vVkAu7DRo) one played a lot while writing it and I feel it makes a good addition to the feel. Play once you read from the " ~ " break if you'd like!  
> 

Mycroft had organised a driver for the day, given that Gregory was incapable of driving for more than short trips, and he wasn’t in much of an emotional place for focusing on the road. They left just after breakfast. Sherlock and John were also coming up that day, with Rosie and Mrs Hudson. Mycroft was glad they were taking a separate car. He didn’t think his nerves could handle a car trip with his brother, the overprotective landlady, and a crying infant. It was much more peaceful to rest back and gaze out of the window with his husband’s hand secured fast in his own.   
He had to admit he was nervous. Not just about the party, but about their first destination. After a conversation with Gregory, they’d decided to stop at Musgrave so that Mycroft could see what was left. He knew that his partner was trying hard to help him improve, but Mycroft was skeptical. He wasn’t sure how he would feel seeing the empty field where his childhood home once stood. It had seemed immovable for so long, withstood everything thrown at it, that it was hard to picture the land without the building towering over it. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shake the memories.   
“It’ll be alright, love,” Greg said, squeezing his hand. Mycroft opened his eyes and looked at him. “No matter how you react, you’ll at least be able to see it and process it later,” he spoke, patting their clasped hands.   
“Yes, there is that,” Mycroft admitted. He turned to look out of the window again. “It is difficult to picture that structure which has haunted me for so many years simply be… gone.”   
“That’s why we’re going to see it with our own eyes.”  
“You want us to leave it behind,” Mycroft commented, remembering their conversation.   
“Well, yeah.”   
“At least doing so does not require us to spend any length of time there.”  
“Only what you’re comfortable with, Sunshine,” Greg said. “You might find that you need time when you’re there to just work through the memories and let the feelings out.”  
Mycroft merely grimaced and nodded, returning to look out the window with tired eyes. 

~

In what felt like no time at all, partly because Mycroft had dozed for half of the journey, they had arrived at Musgrave. Or, rather, where it used to be. He sat in the car beside Gregory, not wanting to get out. He was grateful that neither his husband nor his driver made any indication of pushing him. His eyes narrowed as he saw another car pull up; he’d been staring off into nothing, and then suddenly his brother arrived to break him out of his thoughts.   
He looked back over to Gregory, who gave him a reassuring smile, and then down to his hands. They lay in his lap, cradling his book. The old, tattered, black leather book that he’d filled with all of his pains and trials of life with his family. He grazed the worn leather with his thumb. Inside held all of his experiences with Eurus, all of Sherlock’s drug episodes, all of his panicked, desperate moments trying to keep his brother safe, all of the lies and secrecy, all of the grief his parents felt and the struggle he felt to allow them to continue mourning. Mycroft clenched his jaw tightly as it all flowed back to him.   
“Just breathe, love. Take all the time you need,” Gregory spoke softly to him, shuffling closer. He closed his eyes and focused on just breathing evenly. Eurus’ face flashed before his eyes, and he wrenched them open as quickly as he could. He gripped the book tightly to try prevent himself shaking, but it didn’t work. He pushed his back into the seat.   
“Greg,” he uttered, silently pleading for him to hold him. Gregory understood, and leant up against Mycroft’s side and pressed his open palm into the centre of his chest.   
“It’s ok,” Greg whispered. Mycroft nodded, focusing on the reassuring pressure on his chest. The panic ebbed away, and so he opened the car door.   
They greeted Sherlock and John, Mrs Hudson staying in the car with the sleeping Rosie. Mycroft noted that his brother looked tense as well. He wasn’t sure if that was out of concern for him, or if Sherlock was also unsettled with the location. Mycroft guessed it was more likely to be concern, as his brother had proven to be extremely resilient in the wake of Eurus’ escape. Sherlock said nothing, and Mycroft didn’t feel the need for words either. They merely nodded to each other. Gregory stood between himself and John, seemingly trying to gauge how close he was needed. Mycroft extended his empty hand towards him, and gave a haunted smile when it was taken.   
“Are you ready?” Greg asked, eyes flickering between Mycroft and Sherlock. Both he and Sherlock nodded in response.  
The walk to where Musgrave once stood wasn’t long, but it was up a slightly grassy hill. Mycroft could see the tracks made by various trucks and equipment, recently having dug up patches of earth.He hadn’t been given any updates about the demolition; he’d been told when it was starting, and when it was completed. Beyond that, he knew nothing about it. He considered how once he would have been unsettled by the lack of information, and yet here he was today perfectly content to not know.  
They reached the top of the hill and gazed out over the property, seeing the large empty dirt patch where the building once stood. It seemed so innocuous, Mycroft pondered, now that the building wasn’t there. There wasn’t a sense of foreboding or failure hanging in the air. It was just a field with trees; no indication of the traumas once occurring there. He’d expected it to be a stark and grinding contrast to his memory, like changes often were, but surprisingly he was comforted. 

Gregory let Mycroft stand on the small hill overlooking the site as long as needed. They didn’t have a schedule to keep, since they’d planned only this for the day. Sherlock walked on ahead, tailed closely by John. Mycroft watched his little brother approach where the front gate used to be, and stop.   
“Are you alright, gorgeous?” Greg asked, squeezing his hand gently.   
“It’s so different,” he responded, not sure how he felt yet. The change wasn’t unsettling, but it was still _Musgrave_. There memories were still there in his mind. “I can still see it in my head.”  
“Come on,” Greg said, tugging his hand, “let’s go join the others.”   
Mycroft allowed himself to be led to where Sherlock and John stood. They were muttering to themselves, likely about either Sherlock’s memories or of their recent experience there. Mycroft didn’t pay them enough attention to eavesdrop. He kept looking away, and part of him inexplicably expected the building to reappear when he returned his focus.   
“It’s strange that it’s just _gone_ ,” Mycroft spoke, his eyes raking over the fresh earth coated with upturned stones.  
“It’s easier to bring down physical walls than emotional or intellectual ones, brother,” Sherlock said, his deep baritone voice rumbling into the empty space.   
“If only removing the building would remove the memories as well,” he commented hesitantly.   
“Give it time, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, turning to face him. “Without constant reminders, they’ll eventually fade away.”  
He watched as Sherlock strode off to where John had drifted in order to talk quietly with Gregory. Mycroft briefly wondered what they were talking about, but instead returned his attention to the empty space before him. He walked forward, remembering the rooms that used to be there, until he stood in the centre of the area. He remained focused on the ground beneath his feet, memories starting to flood his brain. 

Mycroft was lost in himself, watching the re-run of his life. When Eurus was brought home for the first time. How excited he’d been; he thought it’d be just like Sherlock. He soon found how wrong he was. He saw the cold stares Eurus would give him as a baby. His heart pounded, suddenly panicking about becoming a father. He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thoughts — his and Gregory’s baby wouldn’t be like her. His body tensed as more memories washed over him: all of the times Eurus had injured him or Sherlock, the times Sherlock would run into his room screaming because of Eurus, the times he had hidden inside his room and pushed furniture against his door to stop his sister getting in. He watched as his sister answered him blankly about cutting herself, as she told him she was going to see if Sherlock worked the same, as she sung that song incessantly, as Sherlock broke before him. He could see Eurus sitting there with her drawings of Sherlock dead, remembering how panicked he’d felt. He watched as the house burned around him, desperate to get Sherlock out. The memories kept coming… his parents screaming in pain at their loss, the guilt over having to hide Eurus’ existence, Sherlock’s pain, swearing to always be there for his little brother, then finding him in drug dens after having been away.   
He hadn’t realised that he’d been standing rigid in the centre of the patch of dirt, trembling. Gregory came up to his side and entwined their fingers, and then pressed a tender kiss to his forehead. He welcomed being snapped out of the sea of his past. It was not enjoyable to forcefully relive it all, and he felt powerless to stop it or shove them back down into the recesses of his mind.   
“Let it go, Myc,” Greg murmured, resting his forehead on Mycroft’s shoulder. “Don’t fight it. Don’t keep it. Let it go.”   
Mycroft breathed deeply, and focused on the comforting grip of his hand. It sounded cliché, he knew, but at that moment it was something he desperately needed to hear. He focused on them, letting his husband’s words resound through his head. The memories started to run through again, playing out before him from the night he was told Eurus was out. This time however, he was on the outside, just observing, with Gregory standing there grounding him to reality. The events didn’t take over, the anxiety didn’t overwhelm him, and he didn’t lose himself in the past.   
He felt the sorrow and the hurt as he watched his brother turn the gun on him at his own request. He’d been ready to die for his mistakes. The agony of being locked in the cell came back to him as he watched himself sitting there, alone, reeling over what Eurus had said.  
_Let it go._  
His stomach clenched as he saw himself in his office, gun in hand, hearing his husband’s frantic calls. He saw the life he tried to regain, and how it failed because he tried to go back to being someone he just couldn’t be anymore. It was strange to look upon it with his new understanding of himself and his new perspective. He’d almost gotten there too, but he’d hurt the one person he cared for most in the world so much in his attempt to do so. He felt the sting of regret at causing that pain.   
_Let it go._  
He saw the second visit; standing up to his mother, doing as he was told, and then losing touch with reality in his attempt to leave. For the first time he saw what he looked like from the outside, his mind filling in the gaps from accounts of the incident, and he let out a pained breath seeing himself claw at a wall, be pinned to the ground, and sedated.   
_Let it go, Myc._  
He was in the hospital room, watching himself broken and defeated, laying in the bed. He saw how desperately Gregory clung to him. He watched as he went through his recent memories, of nightmares and of Sherlock taking pills off him. He remembered accepting his new job, and all the reasons why.  
_Let it go._

He opened his eyes. He exhaled. His muscles relaxed. He looked at Gregory, and broke into an honest, true smile, one that wasn’t tinged with the shadows of the past. He looked back down at his other hand, holding his book. He knew what he had to do. He knelt down onto the soft earth, dug his fingers down into it and shifted a handful of dirt, leaving a small hole. He then placed the book into the shallow grave, swept the dirt back to cover the book, and lifted one of the large rocks embedded in the ground to place upon the book. He then stood up, still looking at the tombstone for his past. Gregory embraced him around the shoulders, and he lent his head against his husband’s. He turned and kissed Greg softly.   
“I love you,” he uttered into Gregory’s ear. “You are my everything.”  
“I love you too, Sunshine.”   
Mycroft smiled warmly at the pet name, nuzzled Gregory, and then pulled him in for a proper hug.   
“I’m so proud of you, Myc, and I’m glad that you buried all of that horrible past here. We can walk away now; literally walk away from it. And it won’t ever see my Sunshine again, inside that dark hole,” Greg said whilst they embraced. He pulled backwards to look directly into Mycroft’s eyes. “It won’t all just be gone as easy as that, I know you know that, but it’s the best thing you could have done to move on.”   
“I agree, Gregory.” Mycroft cast his gaze over to where Sherlock and John stood, waiting. “Shall we continue onwards?”  
“Yeah, love. Onwards and upwards.”


	44. Let Our Hearts Hold Fast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. I want to also recommend a song for this, since I feel it's significant - it's where I got the chapter title. 
> 
>   [ Let Your Heart Hold Fast by Fort Atlantic ](https://youtu.be/kBqWtdMpies)

Greg looked out over the room filled with his family and closest friends. He stood at his table, just watching as his husband conversed with his mother and Aunty Marge, beaming. He’d never seen Mycroft so at ease. Yesterday had been challenging, and they’d spent most of the night cuddled up in a tight embrace, just being together… but since they woke to the morning light, Mycroft had looked much more relaxed. Not necessarily anxiety-free, since the party was still a big stressor for his husband, but he moved as if he no longer carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Greg noticed that there weren’t any of those moments where Mycroft would tense with concern or worry over something that flashed across his mind. He seemed much more ‘present’; as if he wasn’t held by ropes of his past anymore and could just be in the moment. He knew the suit he wore, a light grey with a blue tie to match his eyes, was more for Greg’s enjoyment than as armour — he could tell just by the subtle movements his husband made, not caring about creases or immaculate presentation. 

John came up beside him and nudged him with his elbow.   
“It’s nice to see that after everything you’ve gone through together, you’re still as besotted with him as all those years ago.”  
“How could I not?” Greg responded, looking at his friend with the same warm gaze.   
“He looks better,” John commented.   
“Yeah. Here I am turning fifty and he has the gall to wake up looking ten years younger,” Greg joked. John burst out laughing, and Greg joined. Mycroft cast a glance their way, grinning, and Greg pecked a kiss his way. He kept watching at his husband returned to his conversation with Betty and Marge, and then turned his attention to Sherlock. He was standing a few meters from his brother, gleefully lifting Rosie into the air and back down again just to see her laugh.   
“You ever think that this was where we’d end up?” John asked, following Greg’s eyes to where Sherlock and Rosie were.   
“Not once. You?”  
“Nope. It’s been quite the rollercoaster; I don’t think anyone could have predicted it. They’d have been sectioned if they tried.”   
“Yeah,” Greg chuckled. “As much as it’s been a trial and a half getting here, I don’t think we could have made it any other way. The bits we wish we could have done without are the bits that have shaped us the most.”   
“Listen to you, getting all wise in your old age.”   
Greg laughed again, picking up his flute of champagne and sipping it. “I think your other half wants you,” he said with a flick of his head towards Sherlock, who was beckoning John to come help with the mess Rosie had made of the butter she’d grabbed.   
“I’d bet he does,” John groaned playfully. “He is always so keen to play with her but not so much to clean up the mess.”  
“When has Sherlock _ever_ been one to clean up his messes?”  
“Touché,” John admitted. “He’s learning, though. We’ll get there in the end.”  
Greg watched as his mate strolled over to Sherlock and Rosie, scolding his partner for allowing his daughter to grab the butter in the first place. “Yeah,” he said softly to himself. “We will.” 

He chatted briefly with Sally, asking how she was finding her promotion. She was managing well, by all accounts, and Greg was proud of her. He knew that his working part time was only so successful because of the effort she was making on his behalf. He then managed to float his way through the (relatively small) crowd to end up at his husband’s side.   
“You managing ok?” Greg muttered into Mycroft’s ear.   
“Currently, yes. I think I will need to take a break in a few minutes,” Mycroft murmured in response.   
“Sorry, guys,” Greg announced loudly to the people Mycroft had been talking with. “I need to steal him for a bit.”   
The party laughed at them, and Greg ushered Mycroft away to the edge of the room. They stood at the base of the staircase to their room.   
“They’re going to think you’re abducting me for sex,” Mycroft chuckled.   
“Let them be jealous,” Greg responded, leaning in to kiss him passionately.   
“Gregory,” Mycroft protested, “We’re not actually going to have sex.”   
“‘Course not. But they don’t know that.”   
“Darling that is quite inappropriate for a fiftieth birthday party.”   
“Oi, it’s _my_ fiftieth, so let an old bugger have some fun with his guests.”  
“Oh so they’re _all_ invited now?” Mycroft teased, raising his eyebrows.  
Greg laughed and shook his head. He enjoyed it when Mycroft was in a playful mood. He tugged at Mycroft’s hand, pulling him up the stairs to their room. He did press him up against the closed door for another kiss, but released him again to rest comfortably on the edge of the bed. “Better?”  
“Much quieter, yes, thank you.”   
“I’m glad.”   
“Lunch will be served soon, so we don’t have long.”   
“Oh,” Greg hummed suggestively, “changed our mind, have we?”   
“You are incorrigible, you insatiable devil,” Mycroft chided with a wide grin.   
“That’s a lot of big words for a simple old copper,” Greg uttered, raking his fingertips over Mycroft’s stubbled cheek.   
“You’ll have to wait until tonight,” Mycroft breathed, his nose brushing against Greg’s.   
“Way to make me anticipant.” Greg bridged the gap between them and kissed him gently. “At least I can still snog you whenever I want in front of company.”   
“Eloquent as always,” Mycroft laughed. “Go back to our guests, dear. I shall only be a moment.”  
Greg nodded and pecked another chaste kiss before standing and leaving the room. 

It appeared that no one had even noticed them disappearing, until his mother came up and asked where Mycroft was.   
“He’s just taking a moment,” Greg explained.   
“Good,” Betty answered with a nod. “He needs to take care of himself too.”   
“Yeah. He’s going a lot better than I thought he would be, but best not to push it. Yesterday, while being really good and cathartic for him, was also quite draining.”  
“You are very good for each other, you know that dear?”   
“I know, Mum,” Greg said, wanting to sound exasperated but it just came out endearing.   
“He loves you very much. He spoke very highly of you when we were talking just before; you’re his entire world. I’m very happy for you, my boy.”   
Greg looked at his mother carefully, noting the hint of pain from her failed marriage and his own. He smiled sympathetically. “Thanks, Mum. He’s my world too. It might have taken a while, but I got there in the end. Finally have a family to come home to.”   
His mother looked at him shrewdly for a moment, raised her eyebrow at him, and then her face widened in shock. She then broke out in the most joyous of grins. “Really Greggy? Don’t play games with me, young man.”   
“Mum, it’s my _fiftieth_ …”  
“Gregory Lestrade-Holmes!”  
“Yes, yes,” Greg exclaimed quickly to stop his mother shaking him. “Yes, we’re going to start a family.”  
“Ohhhhh this is the best news I’ve heard since you told me you were getting married!”   
“Shh, keep it down, Mum, we haven’t started anything. We agreed that we need to take some time, so in a year, we’re going to try surrogacy.”   
Greg sighed and rolled his eyes as his mother waved Margret over, still being jostled at her enthusiastic movements as she hadn’t released her death grip on his arm. He nodded in confirmation to Margret’s questions, and then received a tight hug. Unfortunately (for him, Greg mused), Mycroft picked this moment to rejoin the party. He had barely managed to open his mouth to announce his presence before he was met with a squeal and embraced in a tight embrace.   
“Greg…” Mycroft squeaked, his hands flailing.   
Greg chuckled at him fondly. “Guess who worked out our plans for a year’s time,” he said, amused. Mycroft raised his eyebrows.   
“You told them?”  
“No! I just let it slip that I will have a family to go home to. Mum was the one that started my questioning mind, you know.”  
“I see,” Mycroft grumbled, more just unimpressed that he was still being gripped tightly by his mother-in-law. “Mrs Lestrade—”  
“Mum,” she corrected.  
“Mum,” Mycroft repeated awkwardly, and Greg laughed so hard he winced in pain from his side. He was glad that Mycroft’s response earned him the right to breathe again, and was released from the hug. 

Lunch was served. Greg had originally protested that it was fine to have vegetarian food for Mycroft as to not bring up any traumatic images, but was now incredibly glad that Mycroft had won that argument and ‘forced’ the steak upon him. It was divine; even though Mycroft’s meal looked and smelled wonderful, he was thrilled to have the meat. He was pleased that his husband seemed not to be that bothered by it, either. When the plates were cleared away, Greg leaned to his side and pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek.   
“Thank you, sweetheart,”  
“The pleasure was mine,” Mycroft responded. “I enjoyed seeing you indulge.”  
“And I’ll get to see it too, with dessert,” Greg said, his heart clenching at the adorable blush that flushed his husband’s cheeks.   
“It will indeed be decadent, and I look forward to it.”  
Greg generally wasn’t a sweets person, but he adored the chocolate-caramel fondant that they had. He watched the way Mycroft would close his eyes and hum inaudibly at each careful mouthful. He wanted nothing more than to take the dessert upstairs and do dastardly things to him with the chocolate. Maybe later, he thought to himself. It was their holiday, after all. 

After dessert, there came the speeches. Greg hadn’t wanted any, but Mycroft had insisted. He didn’t understand how Mycroft could be both strained by just being around a group of people, and want to speak to them. He guessed that tradition was just that important to him, and so just let it be.   
Sally spoke first, and said some wonderfully kind things as well as some terrible jokes and humiliating stories from the yard. She ended by saying he would be missed, but was glad he was taking some well-earned space for a new chapter in his life. He began to wonder how quickly his mother had spread the news about their intention to start a family, but assumed it could have also been just an innocent comment. 

Mike Stamford went next. Greg had kept in touch with him over the years since they’d been somewhat shoved together back when Greg had first met Sherlock. He kept it brief, and avoided anything embarrassing. He found it amusing that Mycroft (well, Anthea, really) had worked some magic and gotten Mike off call for the weekend so that he could attend. Greg had always been able to bond with the doctor over their shared ‘dedicated to the job’ lifestyles, and didn’t blame him for fading out of his life for periods at a time. He hoped that maybe they could find some time to go for a pint with John occasionally in future. 

Molly spoke without her smile dropping for an instant. She regaled the crowd over Greg’s first experience of seeing a human brain up close. It had ended in the prompt removal of his lunch in the biohazard disposal bin, which then caused him to jump backwards and land flat on his back on the lab floor. Greg laughed along with everyone at the memory; it seemed like a lifetime ago. It was also back around the time he met Stamford and Sherlock. He’d kept in more contact with Molly than Mike, more because of working hours and necessity than anything initially, and then because of Rosie. He was glad that she had become part of his permanent circle. Molly ended her speech with lots of well wishes, and Greg scoffed at her suggestion of another fifty years to go. He’d never really considered living to a hundred. In the past, he hadn’t wanted to. Now, however, if it was fifty years of domestic bliss with Mycroft… well, he’d enjoy that. He still seriously doubted he’d get there, given his previous lifestyle, but he was ok with that. He looked forward to whatever time he had with Myc. 

John went next. Greg was a little apprehensive. There was a lot of history with John, and he wasn’t sure he wanted everyone in the room to know it all. Thankfully John tended to be a man of few words, and so kept it simple. It was moving, what he said about his life turning around because Greg let him in on his crime scenes with Sherlock, and how he’d made a two lifelong friends when it seemed he had nothing left. Greg nodded thankfully at him when he finished, John declaring that Greg was family now and he looked forward to seeing where life led them now. 

Then it was Sherlock’s turn, and he stood up rigidly and faced the crowd.  
“Now, Sherlock, before you start let me just say: no solving any murders this time, ok?” Greg said, stopping him from speaking.   
“I didn’t solve a murder, I prevented one,” Sherlock snapped back indignantly, but then softened his posture at the smile John gave him. Those in on the joke laughed, and those who were left in the dark just looked about uncomfortably. Greg nodded at him to continue.   
“Lestrade has made a difference to everyone in his life, in one way or another. In the beginning of our association, I treated him poorly. And yet, inexplicably, he continued to try help me. I admit I regret how forcefully I resisted him, but I am eternally grateful for his persistence. I would not be here today if it weren’t for him, and it has taken recent events for me to be able to see just how much he, and my brother, has done for me. This typical for him; he gives support and love unconditionally, without judgement, and will always be there to help. He has gone beyond what he is capable of many times following his sense of obligation to support those he cares about, even to the point where he himself needed help. It’s what made him such a dedicated officer, and led to the high success rate that he achieved.  
“I’m sure that I am not the only one in the room to believe that he deserves the happier, calmer life that he is set to embark upon with Mycroft now. I want to take the opportunity to thank him for all he has done for me, and John, and of course my brother. He became family to me long before he married Mycroft. It is a great comfort to me that this man, who quickly became an invaluable friend to me, will remain in my life for the foreseeable future. All the best, Greg, and know that the fifty years of life you leave behind you today have touched many lives for the better. The people in this room are testament to that.” 

Greg felt chocked up at Sherlock’s heartfelt words. He wanted to give him a hug, but he wasn’t within grabbing distance. Mycroft squeezed his hand supportively instead. The room buzzed with quiet conversations, either emotional or supportive of Sherlock’s statements. Greg took a few steadying breaths, and then nodded to show he was alright for Mycroft to stand up. His husband gave him a smile, before standing. The crowd fell quiet as soon as they saw him, awaiting his words expectantly.   
“Gregory. For the first time in my life, I find I am at a loss for words. What words could possibly convey what you mean to me? We have a long and convoluted history, involving more challenges than anyone could have ever anticipated. You are the most remarkable individual I have ever encountered. From the moment I met you, I could both read everything there was to see, and be surprised by you. You hide nothing, but behave so genuinely kind and considerately that it was always a shock to find that you were there, caring, when everything I knew indicated you had no reason to. You are more intelligent than my brother ever gave you credit for, and yet you accepted his torments without question. You spent your day dealing with the grisly darkness this world has to offer, and yet you remained a bright light that could not be dulled. You put yourself down as being a simple, average man… but you do not see how incredible you truly are to have gone through what you have, and emerged the man you are. I can tell you that if the rest of the world took on even a shred of your decency, then both of our jobs would have been very easy indeed.   
“You came into my life as the saviour of my dear brother, and in turn saved me. Since then, you haven’t stopped. You have given my life a meaning I didn’t know I was lacking. You took the icy loneliness and melted it. Even when I wonder how someone so spectacularly empyreal could love someone such as myself, you scold me for being unreasonably harsh on myself. You always consider me, and that is something I hadn’t experienced before. I can’t express how valuable you are to me. All I can do is thank the universe it saw fit to push you into my path, and keep you by my side. I wouldn’t have gotten through the recent trials of my life without you there.  
“Today marks not only fifty years of your life, but a turning point in my own. I insisted in these speeches because you needed to hear how important you are to so many people, not just to me. I want you to remember these words every time things get tough — because, my love, I can’t guarantee it won’t get hard sometimes. I know we’ve had more than our fair share of difficulty, and I hope that from today on we can move forwards to a life that isn’t so plagued with hardship. You truly deserve it, Gregory. You have been the light in a dark world for long enough, my darling, and so I ask everyone to stand and raise your glasses with me to wish you all the best for the coming years. May they be kind, as you have been, and may this mark the start of a new life for us. To Greg.” 

Everyone in the room stood, raised their glass, and repeated a chorus of ‘to Greg’. He didn’t know what to say, or do. He wanted to cry, he wanted to deny all of the compliments, he wanted to just grab a hold of Mycroft and never let him go. Instead, he stood and pulled Mycroft by his tie in for a deep kiss. The crowd applauded, and they slowly sat back down, not taking their eyes off each other.   
“You didn’t have to say all that,” Greg uttered, still red from embarrassment and tears glistening in his eyes.  
“On the contrary, I really did. You are my life, Gregory, and I am here with you through whatever the impending years hold. You need to know that.”  
“I already did, but thank you.” Greg kissed him again, gentler this time. 

Greg looked out over the party, at the faces from all facets of his life. He’d done a lot in his time, he realised. He couldn’t help but think that the best years of his life were still ahead of him; with Mycroft, raising a family, retiring, and growing old together somewhere just outside of London. He really didn’t think that he’d end up here, all those years ago when the strange posh man abducted him off the street. 

If only he’d known what lay ahead when he sat in his bedroom that night, feeling like he had nothing left in life. He looked over to Sherlock and John, then back to Mycroft. He leant against him and exhaled, smiling, as his husband embraced him. Here they were, spending a cosy weekend together before heading home, having let go of the traumas of the past, and with a bright future ahead. No, he decided; if he’d known, then it wouldn’t have happened the same, and he wouldn’t want to have ended up anywhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's finished. Like Greg, I never thought I'd end up here. I didn't realise how long this was going to be, or how important it was in my life.  
> This series has been my emotional venting, my way of processing the difficulties and big changes in life. It's gotten me through some rough times. More importantly, it's been the means through which I've met the Mystraders and gained truly wonderful friends. 
> 
> Thank you deeply to everyone who has commented. You have helped this dragon feel like he wasn't alone, and could do something that mattered when everything else was falling apart. I give hugs to each and every one of you. 
> 
> I have learned a lot from this and am starting a new work that will be my first 'serious' piece - it's not just emotional (it is a little, but not like this was), but has cases and intricate plot points. I hope that it will be received as well as this has been. 
> 
> Much love to you all.


End file.
